The Superheroine Affair
by JMK758
Summary: During a Convention, a shocking discovery is made that will ultimately change the lives of several NCIS Agents.
1. The Death of Batgirl

Disclaimer: NCIS and all related properties are copyright Belisarius Productions. No infringement is intended. I make no money from this project, and I do not own or control anything there, not even Abby or Ziva; darn it!

This story originally appeared in .

This is the first story in my Mystery series. Future ones include 'Jurisdiction', 'Wiccan Affair', 'Sacramental Seal', 'Fantasy Affair', 'Assassin', 'Dark Night', 'Elf Lord', 'Inner Darkness', 'John 8:7', 'Swiss Knife' and 'Haunted'. There are also one-shot stories such as 'Abby's Night out', 'INCIS', 'Into the Light' and 'Have Yourself A Merry'.

Rating: M or NCis-17

Warnings: Murder (of course), nudity, torture, explicit language.

NCIS – The Superheroine Affair

By: JMK758

Prologue

Tamara Baird stopped her housekeeping cart in front of the next room on her assigned floor: 818, single, non-smoking, and used her key card in the locking mechanism. While a guest's card could open only one door, staff members had no such restriction.

It was nine sixteen a.m. and she doubted she would meet any late departing guests. The Hotel was given over this Memorial Day Weekend to a Convention that had attracted a reputed record number of guests. In its third day, everyone would be downstairs attending the Sunday morning revelry.

Tamara pushed the door open, turned on the light, and as she brought the cart in with her to hold the door open – no hotel maid ever worked behind closed doors – she turned and froze, shocked.

The woman was stretched out upon the bed, arms and legs spread and tightly tied by ropes which held her limbs secure to all four corners. Her red hair was splayed across the pillows and she stared at the ceiling with sightless eyes. Tamara didn't need more than a second to see that the bound woman was not breathing. She was dead.

This was not the first deceased guest Tamara Baird had encountered in her ten years at this hotel. It was, in fact, the second. That other, a middle aged man with a heart condition, had been unknown to her, as indeed were all the guests she had ever encountered.

This one was different. Tied as she was, she had not gone peaceably in her sleep as that other had. Tamara didn't know this woman's name, but she recognized her instantly.

This was 'Batgirl'.

Chapter One

The Death of Batgirl

Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge of the Headquarters Division of NCIS in Washington D.C., did not enjoy early Sunday calls from the Metro Police Dept. They were never good news and this time was no exception. The body of a young woman had been found in a hotel, and when the Police determined that she was part of the U.S. Navy, their 'course' was clear. Stretched entirely too thin in their own resources over the Memorial Day weekend, they didn't hesitate long in turning this case over to someone else. They couldn't insisted on jurisdiction; though this had happened in a hotel, not on a Naval base, 'the law was the law'.

The call to NCIS Headquarters, along with all available details, had been relayed to Gibb's cell phone, and he in turn contacted his three Field Agents, as well as the Agency's Medical Examiner, giving them such particulars as he had.

Doctor Donald Mallard, known affectionately and unambiguously as 'Ducky', lived roughly midway between Gibbs' home and the hotel, so the Chief Agent offered to pick his friend up. He also knew that, with his own driving style, it would get the man to the scene far more quickly than if Ducky were to drive on his own.

Ducky would have preferred the latter; as Gibbs' style was a cross between the Indianapolis 500 and a bullet train; but his friend was not known for his patience, and the offer was quite insistent. He accepted, counting on his carefully packed Field Examination equipment to survive the harrowing trip.

xxx

The Hotel Meritz was crowded. When Gibbs and Mallard entered through the revolving door, it seemed that half the city was queued up in the lobby, enduring an orderly line to an escalator that would snake the crowd, eventually, to the second floor.

The Meritz boasted the largest number of ballrooms in the city, twelve in all on the 2nd through 4th double high floors. From a perusal of the directory prominently displayed in the lobby, it was clear all were being utilized to their capacity.

Ignoring the crowd, the pair made their way to the Registration Desk. A woman wearing a white blouse and maroon jacket, upon which was pinned a badge bearing the name 'Tina Ambrosino; Manager', smiled at them in greeting. "May I help you?"

Gibbs pulled out and opened his leather folder containing his shield and ID card and identified both himself and Mallard. "We're here investigating the death of Midshipman Leslie Greene." The woman's smile vanished.

"Yes. Would you come with me please?" Signaling to another woman to take her place, she led them around the desk and toward the back of the hotel. "This is a more direct route to the room. Some of the Police are still here, but your Agent is up there and has taken charge."

This was a surprise to Gibbs, who hadn't wasted any time in arriving, and had reasonably expected to have to wait for his staff. "Which one?"

"An Agent MacNee."

"McGee?"

"Yes, that's it. Sorry. This whole incident has gotten us a little shaken."

"Have you been in the room?" Ducky asked, concerned about integrity of the scene.

"I had no choice, but I didn't stay long." She glanced at Gibbs, the unspoken message clear. The woman had stayed inside for as brief a time as possible. "I didn't touch anything."

They reached an elevator, and Ambrosino pulled a ring of keys out of her pocket, selected one and inserted it into a panel by the door. The elevator opened. "Private staff car," she explained.

x

The '8th floor', ignoring the high lobby and three levels of double high ballrooms accessible by two escalators a piece, was on the 16th level of the huge hotel. There were another 9 floors above this. During the trip Ambrosino was silent, lost in her own thoughts, and Gibbs did not press her. Since she was not a principal witness, he preferred to get his facts directly from McGee.

When the elevator deposited them on '8', they saw the man standing in the hall about 60 feet away, wearing a pair of blue pants and a shirt of a lighter shade. He turned at the sound of the elevator opening, and waited for his associates rather than leaving the closed door behind him.

"What have you got, McGee?" Gibbs asked as they reached him.

"No joy, boss. I was very close when you called, so I was able to get here within a few minutes. The police have gone – the patrolmen got another call – so I secured the scene for Doctor Mallard." He paused, greeting Ambrosino, whom he had spoken to earlier.

'Ducky' Mallard noted that the agent, as was usual for him, did not refer to him by his more colloquial nickname while on duty in public. He really must cure him of that, he thought. Later.

"The details you gave me are as much as we know. The Patrolmen's report will be in asap." Already wearing latex gloves, he turned the knob of the door behind him, stepping aside to allow the others to enter.

x

Room 818 looked like every hotel room any of the three Agents had ever been in. There was a single bed between two bureaus; on the right one sat a clock radio. Opposite the foot of the bed was a large dresser upon which sat a television that seemed big enough to crush the wood beneath. In the far right corner near the window was a round table with two chairs, though it could easily have accommodated four. To the left, immediately inside the door, was a small bathroom.

The bed was rumpled, the upper comforter on the floor at the right side, one of the two blankets on the left and the three pillows disarrayed, two of them on the floor, one on either side of the bed.

There was a variety of women's clothing scattered about the room; on chairs, on top of luggage, including a blouse draped over the bathroom door.

"My word," Mallard exclaimed lightly when he saw the body.

x

The woman lay spread-eagled on the bed, her arms and legs tied to the four corners. Her shoulder length, flame red hair was splayed across the pillow under her head, and her unseeing eyes stared upward at the ceiling. The three men stared at the body for several seconds.

"You've _got_ to be kidding," Gibbs declared.

"Not a bit of it, Jethro," Mallard assured him, impressed.

"When I first saw it, I thought it was a costume," McGee admitted.

"Nothing like any costume that was going to make it in 1960's American television; my boy. Or Scottish, for that matter, I'm sorry to say."

x

The woman was indeed wearing the familiar purple costume of the fictional character 'Batgirl', complete with yellow gloves and boots, cape and a bat emblem spread across her breasts. That was on the first look.

The second, as they drew closer, revealed the truth. The yellow cape under her body was material. It was adhered to her bare shoulders to make it hang properly when she stood, though the ends were affixed at her throat. The three triangular projections from the outer sides of each yellow 'glove' were material, adhered to her arms, and the footwear was high heeled slippers cleverly camouflaged to resemble high yellow boots.

That was absolutely _all_ the woman wore.

"Theatrical make-up, gentlemen," Mallard proclaimed. "An excellent job, even attaining the look and sheen of the original material as I recall, though nothing but paint and illusion. Outstanding detail."

From the black makeup that constituted the mask with its swept back eyes to where the straps of her slippers blended into the yellow makeup covering her feet and calves, Leslie Greene was quite naked.

Naked, that is, except for a white handkerchief that had been spread open and laid across the woman's hips, the lower half of the diamond draping down between her thighs to the bed. "That's mine," McGee answered Mallard's questioning glance, earning a sharp glare from Gibbs, who thought that the man had known far better about introducing elements into a crime scene. "I didn't know how many people were going to be in and out, and I felt...."

"Quite right, my boy," Mallard interjected, sparing his friend any need for an explanation, as well as preventing a reprimand from Gibbs. "It will, of course, have to be sent to Abby's lab for exclusion." The cloth would have to be examined so that any cotton particles on her body could be identified and discounted in the evidence phase.

Gibbs might well have said what was on his mind, but refrained since, under the circumstances, he might have done the same.

x

"Wow," a voice exclaimed from the door.

"'Wow' indeed, Mister DiNozzo," Ducky concurred, not looking back to the door from his close examination of the body. Senior Field Investigator Anthony DiNozzo took in the body on the bed from his position in the open doorway. He was wearing jeans and a Steelers 'Super Bowl XL' t-shirt, both of which were considerably dusty. McGee, on the other hand, was wearing slacks and a blue short sleeved shirt, making him by far the more presentable of the two, even on a day off.

"Where's Ziva?" Ziva David was the newest member of the team, whose name agents frequently make the error of pronouncing 'David' until she firmly corrects them to the proper 'Da-veed'.

"Uh, I'm not sure, boss." McGee replied, standing at the foot of the bed.

"Come on, Probie. I told you this was your week to watch her." DiNozzo 'accused'.

"It has been a long time since someone has had to watch me, Tony." Ziva said from behind his left ear. He spun about, startled. The woman, several inches shorter than he, grinned up at him. On her day off she indulged in an uncharacteristic pale green blouse and short matching skirt, her jet black hair hanging loose about her shoulders.

She was frequently described by DiNozzo as 'exotic', when he was not expressing his opinion of her in more earthy ways. DiNozzo frowned at her, irritated at having been so thoroughly startled by her – again.

"I've asked you to stop appearing out of thin air like that. God, it's like dealing with someone out of 'Star Trek'!"

"Oh, I know that one!" she exclaimed. Born and raised in Israel, and very recently arrived in America, she often did not get many of DiNozzo's strictly colloquial references, so she was pleased when once in a while she did. "It is the one with Ambassador Spock."

"Commander."

"Oh? I thought he made Ambassador in –."

"_Enough_." Gibbs said sharply; anything to cut off this barrage of inane drivel while he was trying to get his three Agents up to speed on their new case.

"This is midshipman Leslie Greene, aged 19, assigned to the USS Mercado, presently on patrol off Cuba. She was found by the cleaning staff at 0930 hours this morning. When the police ID'd her, they contacted us. Estimated time of death is about 2300 hours last night."

The two newly arrived Agents joined their fellows near the foot of the bed.

"At first glance, I thought it was a costume."

"I knew I could count on you to give her more than one glance," Ziva quipped, impressed at the make-up.

She and DiNozzo maintained a friendly adversarial relationship that had started in their first meeting and had not changed appreciatively since. She considered him a barely mature example of American youth, a thirteen year old trapped in a thirty year old body, too easily obsessed with sex and gratification, with a primarily gender based view of the world. These things hampered his undeniable abilities as an Investigator.

He considered her an annoying tease and the exotic owner of the hottest pants he'd ever tried to talk his way into.

That he had utterly failed to do so during the one occasion they had shared a hotel room together as undercover 'husband' and 'wife' had not helped their relationship.

x

"Gentlemen, if you don't need me anymore, I do have a busy hotel to run," Ambrosino reminded them from her position near the door. This was as close to the body of the dead woman as she cared to get.

"Oh, yes, thank you," Gibbs replied, trying to cover the fact that, in light of the surprising discovery and having then to deal with his own people, he had completely forgotten the silent woman. He would see her later for more information. For now, if she isn't a primary witness, he'll focus upon information he can glean from the cleaning staff

Working her way past DiNozzo, Ambrosino made a quick departure. When Gibbs turned back, he found that McGee had moved closer to the body, on the other side from where Mallard worked, and was bending quite low over it.

x

Tim McGee, already wearing a pair of latex examination gloves, leaned in quite closely over the woman, examining the detail of the yellow belt with its various utility pouches painted onto her nude body, completely oblivious to everything else, including how intrusive his head was into Mallard's examination. The Doctor had pulled back slightly, a mixture of annoyance and curiosity on his face at McGee's uncharacteristic behavior. The others stared at him until Gibbs leaned over and rapped his hand against the back of the younger man's head, making him stand suddenly. "Sorry, boss; but that's excellent work. Excellent."

"I'm glad you approve," Gibbs said bitingly. But the Agent was no longer looking at his superior; he had already bent back down again and was now staring intently at the woman's breasts. "_McGee_."

"Just a minute, Boss." McGee studied the woman's breasts very closely indeed. Mallard turned to Gibbs in mounting surprise, wondering even so if he should have his friend remove the younger man from his space. McGee did not glance away from his minute inspection of her rather impressive breasts, which were high, firm and needed little in the way of support – or the Agent's close scrutiny. The other investigators looked at each other, all of them at a loss to understand the man's strange behavior.

"I would tell you to 'get a room', McGee," Ziva quipped, uncomfortable with the intensity of his examination, "if we were not already in one." It was true she did not think much at all of DiNozzo, but until this moment she had had far more respect for Tim.

"_McGee_."

"Just a second, Boss." He moved up the body, carefully avoiding stepping on either the blanket or pillow dislodged onto the floor to look very closely at the woman's 'masked' face. He was completely oblivious to Gibbs' outrage. _No one_ told the Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge 'just a second'.

At one point McGee was virtually nose-to-nose with Greene. Then he took and tugged at a lock of her red hair, then moved higher on her head, moving strands of hair about to see her scalp.

Tim McGee was well known to his fellows for his ability to concentrate so totally that he actually shut out the entire planet, his brain's full attention focused purely on the resolution or attainment of a single goal. Usually this was a good thing – it allowed him to find obscure solutions to a case with almost superhuman speed and accuracy. Right now, however, it was just too outrageous to endure.

"McGee, if you don't tell me something very good, I'm going to–"

"I think she's a natural redhead, Boss," McGee said suddenly, surprising Gibbs with his abruptness. "I can't be certain since she was completely smooth down there."

"Thank you for that picture," Ziva remarked. McGee remained oblivious of her tone.

"In fact, I'm pretty sure that–"

"_McGee_!"

He straightened quickly. "Her cowl's missing!" he said as suddenly, equally mysteriously, looking about the room. Sometimes trying to follow the brilliant detective's thought processes was an adventure in itself; one his associates normally didn't mind riding along on, but this time he was leading them to too obscure a destination. "I don't see it anywhere."

"McGee," Gibbs grated, having had all that he could stand, "talk to me before I drop kick you out –."

"Boss, this is masterly work, exquisite detail. The utility belt, the bat emblem, the mask – everything is utterly precise. Meticulous craftsmanship. A _lot_ of work went into this. This was no schlock job. It must have taken hours to get the precision work right.

"But 'Batgirl' was 'Barbara Gordon', a brunette who wore a red wig, the ends of which could just be seen out of the purple cowl, or stylized hood, that she wore. It was this purple cover that fitted over her head, had raised 'bat' ears -."

"McGee!"

The man continued as though barely having been cut off. "But if this woman was going for body paint rather than a costume, she would have had to paint her hair," they had to admit that this was highly unlikely, "unless she did go for a purple cowl to cover her head. She would have had to use something. I can't believe she'd go for such meticulous detail as she did, and then leave such a glaring omission."

Leroy Jethro Gibbs stared at the man, impressed. He did not ask if this detail was important. In a murder investigation, _everything_ was important; particularly a divergence from the precision the woman had so obviously been striving for.

He was just left with a hundred questions, not the least of which were: why was she painted to look like 'Batgirl', why was she naked, and most importantly; why was she dead?

Right now, he wanted the first – the oddest – question answered first.

x

"Why 'Batgirl?"

"This is the 'Greater East Coast Comic Art Convention' this weekend. You must have seen it downstairs," McGee concluded.

Gibbs had, in fact, seen something of it in the huge crowd queuing up in the lobby, but his focus had been on getting himself and Mallard to the murder site. He vowed never to let himself become so 'focused' as to be so distracted ever again. It was a Rookie's mistake, something he would have chewed anyone else into tiny pieces for, and he had fallen into it like a pre-appointment Applicant.

"They booked the hotel for the four day weekend," DiNozzo took up the report. "I picked up some of their literature on a table in the lobby before coming up here. Their poop sheet bills them as the biggest collection of geeks, freaks and meeps in the country."

"I seriously doubt that," Gibbs retorted.

"No," he admitted. "Actually, they say they have almost every famous artist – if you can call them that – in the Industry; more than anyone has ever assembled since the Comics Code Hearings in the Senate."

"I didn't know ancient history was your specialty, Tony," McGee retorted from across the room. He focused on Gibbs, determined to take up the explanation with more fairness, or at least more accuracy. "Their Celebrity List includes some of the most high-powered names in the Industry. There are artists here from all over the country, with careers spanning decades, from new and upcoming through long retired. Additionally, there are people from television and movies; actors and actresses, directors, producers, art people; _everyone_," he finished expansively.

"Like I said, boss, Geek Central."

"It also has some other things," Gibbs countered.

"Like what?"

"It had Leslie Greene; now it has you, McGee and Ziva. Spread out; find that missing mask – and everything else. Then get down there and find out everything. Interview _Superman_ if you have to, but I want to know why she was there, who she was with, why she was a naked 'Batgirl' and why she _died_."


	2. CSI

Chapter Two

C.S.I.

As the three Field Agents; in Gibbs' view a mixed trio if ever there had been one, spread out as ordered, he returned his attention to Mallard. The Examiner had resumed his interrupted examination. "What can you tell me, Ducky?"

Mallard had not removed McGee's white handkerchief, in consideration of the young woman, regardless of the fact that she was far beyond caring. There was no need to uncover the young lady, the examination in his Morgue would be sufficiently meticulous. Beyond that, he had a somewhat too clear a view of the body already.

"While there are no obvious indications of how she died, as you can plainly see the extensive make-up obscures everything except her lower face and her hair. I cannot give you a definite answer as to cause of death. I will also want Abby to run an analysis of the make-up and body paint.

"The eyes, though open, are fixed widely open, which is indicative of some trauma related to the moment of death. Also, notice the ropes securing her ankles and wrists."

"I have," the Investigator replied grimly. They were white; probably cotton; though Abby would tell him precisely, as well as where they had come from and innumerable other details.

Each of the four ropes had been secured simply but effectively. Folded in half and looped around each limb, the two ends were then pulled tight and knotted to the feet of the bed under the box-spring. There was no slack at all. In this manner, the harder Leslie Greene struggled in trying to escape, the more tightly the ropes bound themselves to her. Greene's wrists and ankles were marked with dried blood which had soaked into the fibers of the rope. She must have been pulling very hard indeed.

x

Before he could say anything, his cell phone in his pocket rang. He pulled it out, flipping the small device open. He already knew, from the ID displayed on the small screen, who was calling. A few words were all he needed before he put the phone away. "They've contacted her Command, and Palmer's bringing your truck."

"Thank you, Jethro. I'll have an answer for you as soon as I can."

Gibbs nodded, turned to the door, already focused on the answers he'll get in MTAC. But he stopped to glare at DiNozzo and his rather dusty Steelers t-shirt. "You got a shirt in your car?"

"Yes," DiNozzo admitted, thinking of the white dress shirt he normally saved for a back-up at the office and how it so did not go with the worn and dusty jeans he was wearing.

"Put it on." Sunday might be an off-day, therefore with a more relaxed dress code, but he was not going to have an Agent investigate a case while looking like he had crawled out from the bottom of a football pile-up – even if he had.

"Yes, boss."

DiNozzo knew he could not possibly say no, though he mentally cringed at the image his upcoming dress combination would present. Maybe this hotel boasted a store where he could scrape up a pair of pants.

x

When their Chief left, he took most of the tension in the room with him, allowing the three Field Agents to conduct their examination. They tried to avoid the bed where Mallard was working, but there was little room for four people otherwise.

"Not very neat," McGee observed, taking in the room as a whole.

"Never knew a woman who was, Probie."

"You just hang out with the wrong class of woman, Tony," Ziva observed, though it was a measure of the regard that she had for the man that she did not even bring herself to be annoyed. Tony looked at her, but ignored the barb.

"Let's find out what sort of woman Greene was, shall we?"

"Well, unless I missed quite a bit," McGee said, stepping out of the bathroom, "there's less of her than this." He held, by one end, a white bra.

DiNozzo took it, examined it briefly, and then held it up toward Ziva's chest as though about to test the fit. She grabbed it out of his hands. "Easily a 'D' cup," she told him with an edge to her tone. She looked at the label near one fastener. "34 Double D to be exact."

"Not our Midshipman, definitely," DiNozzo concluded, looking at the woman on the bed. "She's a 32B."

Ziva turned from him in annoyance. "What does this picture say to you, McGee?" she asked, looking at the bed with some of its furnishings on the floor. There were a lot of used clothes, and not just two types.

"She was paying for a single but using a triple."

"How'd she get away with that, do you think?" DiNozzo asked.

"Easy, if you're discreet. Hotel security is supposed to check, but they need probable cause just as we do to enter a room. If you're quiet, don't disturb the other guests, you can get away with it."

"I didn't, the one time I tried it," DiNozzo said, but then reconsidered. "Then again, it was a suite and there _were_ twenty of us."

"Subtle, DiNozzo," Ziva taunts, "very subtle." But he was not paying attention. He was, in fact, looking intently at the bed.

"No blood, but no other marks either," DiNozzo said, ignoring that blood left on the woman's wrists and ankles, some of which had soaked into the corners of the sheet and mattress. He was, in fact, focusing more on the area obscured by McGee's handkerchief.

"There's blood all right," McGee said. "But it's over here."

x

He was bending over by the round table near the window, and as Ziva drew close, facing him, she could see between them, in the bright sunlight, a patch of red blood five inches in diameter, on the roomward side of the cylindrical table leg. There was also a groove in the fibers of the carpet over eight inches long, commencing from an indented point in the fibers, through the bloodstain to where the table leg now stood.

The table was quite massive, so much so that it would not have moved easily through the heavy pile of the carpet. McGee reached out, pointing to three long hairs stuck to the wood. "What does that say to you?" he asked Ziva.

"Black hair. Not Greene; one of the others in your 'triple'. She fell; hit her head on the wood hard enough to move the table nearly nine inches. Not a lot of blood. Superficial scalp wound, or she got up quickly."

"Or someone got her up." They looked about. "No more blood."

"There will be. Let's find it."

x

A moment before they stood up; Ziva did indeed find something interesting; though she did not announce it aloud. Close as they were, she was able to see into the slightly gaping pocket of McGee's blue dress shirt. In it was a laminated white ID card attached to a silver clip, that clip holding the pocket slightly open so she could see down it. In large black letters she was able to just catch a glimpse of the words 'Greater East Coa' before he stood up.

Though she kept her peace, she now knew the source of McGee's wealth of seemingly obscure knowledge, and not for anything in the world would she reveal the source of that knowledge in DiNozzo's hearing.

x

As they stood up, DiNozzo called to them. "Something interesting here." He had one of the luggage cases open, and when they looked inside McGee whistled.

"Theatrical make-up. A lot of it. Brushes, base, paint – red, blue, silver, yellow, gold, purple, black, white; all of it used."

Ziva looked at the body stretched out on the bed. "She is purple, with yellow and a bit of black. Who is red, blue, silver, gold and white?" She asked this of McGee. Though she would not betray a confidence or a secret, particularly in DiNozzo's presence, knowing the adversarial relationship the two have, she still needed to know.

"Yeah, Probie, you seemed to know all about 'Batgirl'. Who'd use the other colors?"

McGee looked at him, mildly annoyed. "How could I say?" He looked at Ziva, who could not back down. "Comic colorists used four basic colors in the old days: red, yellow, blue and black; then spread out from there. There are _hundreds_ of possibilities for those colors."

"Yeah, well we'd better find out soon," DiNozzo presses, "because this picture is shaping up to something I really do not _like_."

"What?"

"It's been over twelve hours since she died, and it's looking like her two roommates haven't been back. One of them seems to have been here long enough to get hurt. So where are they?"

"Out there, somewhere." Ziva said.

"Naked and painted," DiNozzo concluded. She glared at him. "Hey, all these colors have been used; and if Greene didn't use them, who did? If they're out there, they can't very well blend in."

"You're wrong, Tony, they can." McGee countered. "For the next day and a half they will blend in among several thousand comic and science fiction fans."

"Then that's going to be our first job, because if anyone can tell us what happened here, it's our two stowaway roommates. So in the immortal words of Leroy Jethro Gibbs: '_Let's find them'_!"

xxx

When Gibbs returned to headquarters, one of the Agents manning, or more accurately 'womanning' the adjoining bullpen looked up from her desk.

"Captain Lamprios is on frequency four."

Gibbs veered away from his bullpen, striding to the stairs which lead to the upper platform and the secure MTAC facility. There he will take the call on the system's huge visual monitor.

x

When he entered the room, which was a combination amphitheater and tactical headquarters, he stood before the seating area, the better to observe the entire huge screen before him. There was a technician working one of the control stations. "Open Channel D."

On the large screen before him appeared a middle aged man wearing the beige duty uniform of a Navy Captain. The man had a haunted look in his eyes that told Gibbs clearly that he had been informed of the fate of his crewwoman. "Captain Lamprios, Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS"

"Good afternoon, Agent Gibbs. I've been informed by your associate that something has supposedly happened to Midshipman Greene."

"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry to have to tell you that she has died."

"Are you certain it was her?" The man's voice carried what little was left of his hope that the Investigator was wrong.

"I'm afraid so, Captain."

As if on cue, the technician left his post to hand Gibbs a manila envelope. Gibbs didn't need to ask, but drew one of the photographs which had been transmitted by the police officers initially investigating the case. It showed Leslie Greene's face hidden by her make-up 'mask'. Her lips were brightly red from lipstick, but her blue eyes were open and staring at nothing. There was horror in those wide eyes, horror to chill the soul.

He held it up to the camera.

"It's her," Lamprios declared grimly.

x

Up until now, the Captain could tell himself that it was a mistake, that his crewwoman was not dead. Now he could no longer do so.

"You don't seem particularly surprised by her appearance." He had been.

"Not completely, Agent Gibbs. It is very much in character."

"How so?"

Lamprios took a moment to compose an answer. "Leslie Greene was what I would call an 'unusual' seaman. Oh, not strange or weird, but she had a … hobby that used to drive me up the wall. She was a comic book fan, and lack of access to them seemed to only aggravate her 'condition'.

"She was constantly throwing bits of trivia about. It was 'Batman' this or 'Superman' that. She was the ultimate fanatic. She didn't let the line between reality and fiction blur, but she could drag you into this 'world' if you weren't careful." He smiled, but it was a sad one.

"She had nicknames for certain crewmen; obscure things. We had a Petty Officer that was inordinately fond of hats. It took me a little while to work out who 'Jervis Tetch' was.

"Sometimes if she was annoyed at someone, she would 'forget' his name, 'slip' and address him by some Gotham City nickname only she and those really 'in the know' understood. Nothing that she could ever be called up on. After all, what's the charge for forgetting someone's name?"

"What kind of a seaman was she?"

"Good, no discipline problems, knew her job. That's how she got away with some things. I once told her she was likely to finish her tour of duty in one of two ways: in the brig or as First Officer. She replied she'd rather be First Officer in the brig."

"Did you know she was at the Hotel Meritz?"

"She's talked of nothing else for a month. Didn't you know that this weekend they're hosting the biggest comic book Convention on the East Coast?"

"Yes." Now he did. He'd made it a point to scoop up every bit of literature lying about on his way out.

"Well, it's there, Friday through tomorrow. She's been bending my XO's ear about it for three months, every chance she got, making sure we'd make port in time so she would get Liberty. She says this was going to be the biggest celebration bash of her life."

"How so?"

"Yesterday was her 20th birthday."


	3. The Convention

Chapter Three

The Convention

Satisfied that they had learned all they were going to from a preliminary examination of the hotel room prior to the arrival of a full Forensics team, DiNozzo, McGee and David started toward the elevator. They'd taken numerous photos of the scene and bagged and tagged all the physical evidence they could. Now they would allow Mallard and his soon-to-arrive assistant Jim Palmer all the room they needed while they extended the investigation downstairs.

"Hey, Probie, just where did you learn so much about 'Batgirl'?" Tony DiNozzo 'inquired'.

Tim McGee could have enlightened his associate, if he wanted to. However, he knew that the man was just seeking more material for his constant barrage of assaults against him, and McGee was not about to provide him with any ammunition. "I read a lot," was his only answer.

Never would he admit that, in the 70's, while men like DiNozzo were out on the football field desperately striving to score more cheerleaders than touchdowns, McGee enjoyed two fields of study. He was a straight-A student in the classroom and an avid 'panelologist' in his spare time. That is to say, he was intimately familiar with Superman, Batman and their ilk. In fact, every aspect of the vast comic industry was an 'open book' to the avid young Tim McGee.

Shortly thereafter, figures such as 'Scarlet Witch', 'Saturn Girl', 'Wasp', Mantis', 'Black Canary' and 'Zatanna' didn't escape his notice.

And in his young teens he was even more intimately familiar with such figures as Yvonne Craig's 'Batgirl', Lynda Carter's 'Wonder Woman', Cassandra Peterson's 'Elvira', then later Lucy Lawless' 'Xena' and all the rest of their costumed feminine cohorts.

But this was a detail of his early life he would carry to his grave if he could.

Unfortunately, fate had an entirely different idea.

xxx

By the time Gibbs returned to his desk, he was nursing a growing headache. He'd concluded his business with Captain Lamprios and then a much longer conversation with Director Jennifer Shepherd, bringing her up to date on the agency's newest case. This case had far too many outré elements to it already and, when his phone chose that moment to jangle at him, he was certain he was going to receive more.

"Gibbs."

//Jethro, it's Ducky,// the Medical Examiner informed him unnecessarily. The man's voice was quite distinctive. //I'm still at the hotel; we're getting ready to transport the body, but I thought you'd want a preliminary report as soon as possible.//

"What do you have for me?"

//A cause of death, I'm afraid. There were no obvious wounds on the body, as you have already seen, but due to the manner in which the young lady was tied to the bed led me to perform the obvious tests. There are signs of sexual intercourse – whether it was consensual or not has not yet been conclusively determined.//

Gibbs knew the M.E., even finding a body tied widespread upon a bed, tied so tightly her limbs had bled, _still_ could not jump to the apparent conclusion. He needed definite facts that would hold up in court, not suppositions based on circumstantial evidence.

"How did she die?"

//That's where it gets odd. I believe she was electrocuted.//

"Electrocuted?" This he hadn't been expecting.

//Yes. There were no obvious external signs, as I said; we found them all internally. She was quite charred and the damage was not inflicted quickly. I'm sorry to say the young woman was tortured for quite some time, with something resembling a cattle prod, before she died from the electrocution.//

There was silence on the line for quite some time.

//Jethro? Are you still there?//

"Yeah, Ducky, I'm still here," he said gravely. "Get your report to me as soon as you can."

He hung up the phone, his expression grim. He was glad that, for the moment, he was alone. He wanted no one with him as he tried to expunge the image his friend had painted. But try as he would, he was unable to see anything else but the redheaded beauty and how she had ended her twentieth birthday.

xxx

When the three Field Agents reached the lobby, the 'Greater East Coast Comic Art Convention' was in full swing.

The guests queuing up in the lobby were an eclectic group; young people in jeans and multi-colored t-shirts bearing every conceivable image – and a few that were not – shared space with significantly older men and women who could doubtless remember the 'golden' or 'silver' ages of comics. A few, apparently, pre-dated 'Superman'.

There was no impatience. It was likely that everyone in sight was a long-time veteran of Conventions such as this, and knew the logistics of registering a crowd such as this. In fact, they suspected several friendships may well have been made or renewed while on this line.

In addition to the throng of 'normally' attired guests, there were those who carried their predilections literally on their sleeves. The three detectives could easily pick out several 'Batmen'; 'Supermen'; a 'Green Lantern'; a 'Van Helsing'; a 'Stormtrooper' casually conversing with three 'Jedi Knights'; and nearly a dozen Starfleet Officers from eras mixed with a serene disregard for the time lines. There were also a plethora of 'Wonder Women', 'Supergirls', another 'Batgirl', a very notable slavegirl 'Princess Leia'; a 'Xena', two 'Gabrielle's, a barely leather clad 2005 'Catwoman' and an 'Elvira' who could have given Cassandra Peterson considerable competition.

With the possible exception of 'Princess Leia', none of the women, contrary to DiNozzo's admittedly hopeful expectation, were naked.

x

Hotel Security and Convention Volunteers allowed those in the line to proceed up the escalator in groups of five, but gold Federal Agent badges clear the way through any queue. So it was in fairly short order that the three Investigators found themselves at the Registration table, from which was summoned the senior official for the Convention.

It took only a few minutes for them to be greeted by a tall blonde woman wearing black pants that DiNozzo had to check twice to be certain was not sprayed on, and a white t-shirt; upon which was depicted a full color reproduction of the first 'Fantastic Four' cover; the one where the team was struggling against a green behemoth rising up out of the sidewalk of New York. DiNozzo, in appreciation of the assets which held the team thrust forward, considered revising his opinion in favor of the art form.

The blonde woman had the kind of physique that the word 'statuesque' had been coined for. The tightly hugging pants and equally affectionate shirt brought Tony's thoughts back to the painted nude body that had launched this inquiry.

He took charge of the introductions, determined to establish close connections with the woman. "Hi, I'm Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, NCIS. These are Special Agent Tim McGee, Officer Ziva David."

"Avgata Goodbody."

x

Ziva smiled. In her experience, absolutely nothing had shut Tony DiNozzo up more effectively than that Bondesque introduction.

Every response he could think of had to be instantly rejected if he hoped to make the kind of favorable impression that would make the rest of his life an idyllic utopia. He knew the woman had doubtlessly been subjected to every line in the world, leaving him striving to find one that had never, ever been tried.

Thus left unable to say anything, it gave time for McGee to get as far as explaining the nature of their visit before DiNozzo recovered his voice, as well as his determination to keep the lead with this investigation, and with this woman.

"We're trying to track down information on one of your Convention guests, Miss Leslie Greene," Tony told Goodbody, having considerable difficulty keeping his eyes off it. "We're going to need your measure – your _registration_ lists!"

"Why would Federal Agents be interested in our guest list?" she replied with a grin, having been unable to miss his flub.

"One of your guests, Leslie Greene?"

"Yes?"

"She's dead. Murdered in her room."

x

Goodbody was visibly rocked. Either she actually did not know what had happened, or she was a very good actress. DiNozzo would find out which.

"Everything's – everything's on computer in our office," she told him. "R – right that way."

As DiNozzo and McGee followed, in DiNozzo's case with considerable purpose, Ziva was a bit faster so she could walk next to Goodbody, knowing neither man was likely to object. She pitched her voice low so the men couldn't hear over the noise of the surrounding crowd. "That is not your real name, is it?"

"No. Sorry. Actually, it's my Convention 'Secret Identity'. My real name's Cathy Hinley. Had I known who you were and why you're here, I wouldn't have used it."

"Oh, please, keep it. I have not had this much fun in weeks."

xx

The office that had been set aside for the Convention Organizers was large enough for four desks, and needed eight to contain all the documents and records that filled it. Cardboard boxes covered every available surface, and in some areas considerable ingenuity had been required.

Two desks were occupied, one by a man making copious notes in a document, the other by a woman attempting to deal with a prodigious volume of cash.

"This place really rakes in the money," Tony observed, turning from the loaded table to the Organizer, but his eyes took an extra second to reach up to hers.

"Not as much as you'd think, Agent DiNosy," she replied with a little less warmth than she'd felt earlier. In the second it had taken him to look above her ample chest, she thought he was trying to see her nipples through the artwork. In light of the seriousness of their visit, she decided dealing with him was no longer fun. "Though we do make quite a bit of up-front cash, with ticket prices as well as Dealer fees, when you figure our expenses for the hotel and payments to Guests, we're _not_ going to be rich at the end."

"Really." They had fooled him.

"We have twenty two Convention Guests whose services we are paying for," Goodbody tells him still less warmly, "and the fees charged by the Meritz for ballrooms, particularly over the Memorial Day weekend, are nothing short of ludicrous."

"How much do you take in from this crowd?"

"We have various rates," she admits, "anywhere from twenty five a day up to a potential two hundred for a four day gold membership. Advance reservations range from one to four days; we offer regular, silver and gold level bookings. We have nearly four thousand pre-bookings." She held up a computer printout that was too many pages thick.

"Four _thousand_?"

"And easily twice that number each day in door admissions."

DiNozzo was less impressed than distressed at these figures and exchanged a mildly distressed look with his colleagues. Finding a potential suspect was going to be a minor nightmare. He turned back to Goodbody. "Was Leslie Greene on your list?"

"I can check," she said, putting down the papers and turning to sit down at the desk, opening a laptop computer. "That printout is by category; this is faster. G-r-e-e-n?" DiNozzo corrected her. A few keystrokes later and she looked up. "Yes; Leslie Greene had a four day Gold Membership."

"To what would that entitle her?" Ziva asked.

"Full admission to all events with reserved seating in the first seven rows; front of the line at all autograph sessions; Celebrity Dinner tomorrow night. She's also pre-registered for both Costume Calls, last evening and Monday afternoon." She looked up. "Would I have seen her there?" She didn't really want to know.

"At a guess, I'd say 'yes'." DiNozzo said. At the words 'Costume Calls', too many pieces fell into place.

"We found her dressed as 'Batgirl'," McGee told her, considerably more gently.

"We had two 'Batgirls'," Goodbody told him with mounting apprehension. "Which one was she?"

"The naked one," DiNozzo said.

"Oh, my God." Goodbody looked like she was going to faint. "I _did_ see her!" She fell back in her chair, trying to breathe steadily. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God, I don't believe it!"

"Miss Goodbody," McGee said, trying to grasp her attention before she totally lost her composure. "Can you tell us anything more?"

"Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God I _saw_ her; her and her two friends."

DiNozzo bent down close, latching on this, but before he could say a word Tim McGee latched onto his shoulder. "Give her a minute," he advised. Looking down at the shaken woman, DiNozzo had to agree with the wisdom of this suggestion.

x

It took more than a minute for Goodbody to recover even a portion of her composure. "Yes. Yes, there were three of them; Batgirl, Supergirl and Wonder Woman. They were on as a team, all wearing nothing but body paint."

"How can this be?" DiNozzo was one step short of demanding. "On stage, with kids in the audience, and _naked_? How did you _not _get shut down?" 'And why did I _miss _it?'

"The law's a little vague where we're concerned," Goodbody says, her mind coming back on-line. "We not covered under the 'Entertainment' statutes that include 'Adult' shops. You have to be close enough to be able to see beyond the surface. Get more than ten feet away and it's a costume. They're not 'nude' if you can't see bare skin, and if it _looks_ like they're dressed, they are."

"But -."

"Tony," McGee urged, wanting him to give the aspect a rest. DiNozzo admitted he might as well. He felt annoyed enough about having missed it.

"Are there any pictures of them?" McGee asked, thinking of the search to come. Goodbody looked up at him, a trace of her former humor coming back as she started to recover from the initial shock.

"They were portraying the most popular women in comic history, they were all gorgeous, and they were 'naked'. You'd better _believe_ there were pictures."

"I meant …." He decided to bite the bullet. This matter went far beyond his personal privacy. "I meant 'official' pictures." He watched the light dawn in her eyes.

"What do you mean, 'official' pictures?" DiNozzo asked. McGee was spared having to answer by Goodbody's sudden flash of realization.

"There's a portrait photographer outside. He has a booth. He's not with us; he's renting space. He takes pictures of the fans, touches up and sells them. You can get your picture taken using all sorts of powers, special effects shots. I can't say for sure, but I think some of the fans in the 'Costume Call' would have used him."

"Let's go find out."

Goodbody stood up. "I'll introduce you."

She started to lead the three Agents out of the office, but when DiNozzo stepped out the door Ziva got in front of McGee. "Tony?" He turned around. "I will be a moment." She closed the door in his face.

Turning back to McGee, she reached up and deftly picked his shirt pocket. She held up the laminated admission ID card. "What kind of membership do you have?"

With a look of resignation, he admitted "Two day weekend 'Regular'. And no, I wasn't at the 'Costume Call'."

"Naked Superheroines are not your 'thing'?" she asked with a teasing smile.

"Well, if I'd known.... The fact is, I was watching a panel discussion on Golden Age art."

"You never know what you'll miss," she says, not unkindly.

"I'll bear that in mind. I wasn't going to hold out on the photo booth. If she didn't say anything, I'd have steered us toward it."

Her expression was a little softer. "I know you would." She really liked him and knew he wasn't going to hold out to protect his privacy at the cost of solving the murder of the woman upstairs.

"You're not going to say anything to Tony, are you?"

She slipped the ID back into his pocket, giving it a securing pat and a more reassuring smile. "Your secret is safe with me." She turned and opened the door.

"What was that all about?" DiNozzo demanded.

"Just confirming our date tonight," she told him, stepping past, knowing exactly what her words would do to him. DiNozzo looked after her, and then turned to McGee, but Tim just gave him a maddening smile.


	4. Portraits

Chapter Four

Portraits

The photo booth was in the northeast Dealers' room, one of four immense ballrooms that occupied the lower of three levels given over to the Convention. There were four tremendous ballrooms on each floor, covering entirely too much space as far as DiNozzo was concerned. In Tim's opinion, however, it was not enough. There were two other levels, twelve ballrooms on the three floors, two on either side of the bank of elevators, and all twelve were in heavy use. If the Dealers' rooms as a quad were any indication, the estimate of twelve thousand persons wasn't far off.

Working their way through the crowd, each man was painfully aware that they flirted with any number of 'groping' charges, had the conventioners not been in such jovial moods. Actually, there were a few spots with only moderate crowding, but getting to them was becoming an adventure.

Coming up almost chest to chest with a blue skinned 'Andorian', Ziva's mind flashed back to another 'Star Trek' episode that seemed to epitomize this situation – 'The Mark of Gideon'.

"How does anyone sell anything in this madness?" she called to her associates making their way before her, doing their best to clear a path.

"With great ecstasy!" DiNozzo called back; making his face-to-face way past 'Catwoman' in a space a real cat would have had difficulty squeezing through. She seemed not to mind, and he briefly considered attempting to get her name and number; if it had been possible to pry out his pad and be able to write.

In due if memorable course; during which DiNozzo almost lost sight of their guide on three separate occasions, they reached their destination. Goodbody turned to await them. "Sorry about the crush," she apologized without regret. "It always happens first thing in the morning. Everybody that comes in checks out the possible bargains before they settle down to the other rooms. In about an hour or so it'll even out to a more reasonable level."

"Forget it." DiNozzo said with a smile that said he had no intention of forgetting it. He'd had more close encounters with heavenly bodies than an astronaut.

x

The booth actually had a fair amount of space on either side, which were out of the 'traffic lanes', and those sides contained several large framed pictures designed to attract the attention of the photographer's potential clients. They were of 'ordinary' people surrounded by glowing energy, people flying, generating fields of force or bolts of power from hands or eyes. All were superimposed over simulated backgrounds such as alien worlds, outer space, fantastic images, etc.

The photographer, 'safe' behind a shelf containing several large ring binders stuffed with plastic covered samples of his work, was a moderate sized man with curly brown hair and a brown mustache. He wore a blue t-shirt on which was emblazoned, in red day-glow lettering, the promise that 'I'll make you a Hero!'

"Bob Hostler, these are Agents DiNosy, McGee and Daveed, N.S.I.A. They want to ask you some questions."

"Sure." The man replied with the brightness of a salesman who had nothing to hide, and was confident of it. DiNozzo took out his ID and badge.

"Actually, it's NCIS; Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

"I'm Air Force – or used to be," he replied, now even more confident that they didn't want him. "What can I do you for?"

"We're investigating the death of a Naval Midshipman, who was a guest at this Convention."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's possible you might have a picture of her."

"Possibly, I've been busy these past two days. Business has been very good."

"She was 'Batgirl' in yesterday's costume contest."

"I've shot a lot of 'Batgirls' this weekend," he said proudly. "Several of them came to me for portraits. They wanted to remember their 'Moment of Glory' in _style_."

"This one didn't have a costume."

His smile disintegrated as the import of the Agents' business came clearly to him. They'd left the comfortable realm of fantasy for painful reality. "You say she's dead?" DiNozzo nodded.

Without another word Hostler pulled one of the thick binders before him and opened it. He let plastic covered photos slip quickly past his fingers until he stopped at a particular one. He turned the binder around. "Is she the one?"

x

The picture was a full body shot of 'Batgirl' standing before a night skyline of what could only be Gotham City. Over her left shoulder a 'bat signal' illuminated a cloud. She held her cape, adhered to bare shoulders, out to her right side in an impertinent pose. The three yellow attachments on the outer sides of each yellow forearm as well as the purple cowl covering her hair that the body upstairs had been lacking were the only clothing she wore. Despite the happy expression on her masked face, there was no doubt at all that this was Leslie Greene.

"You say she's dead?" Hostler repeated; his tone filled with the hope that these three would tell him they were wrong, that it had been a mistake.

They didn't.

"How did she die?"

"We don't know all the details yet, but she was murdered."

"Jesus," he implored.

"We understand she was on stage with two friends," McGee told him. Wordlessly Hostler turned to the next pictures.

The first was of a black haired 'Wonder Woman' that McGee was certain could have given Lynda Carter some stiff competition had they been contemporaries. The red, gold and white costume, as well as the metallic silver of her bracelets, were as much body makeup as Greene's had been, and it was clear from her very generous assets that she was the owner of the bra he had found upstairs.

The next picture Hostler displayed was of 'Supergirl', whose long blonde hair was the only thing on her that was not made up. She stood before a huge 'Super' emblem of red and gold. She didn't wear the very brief V cut blue top which actually solved the problem McGee had been considering of her stylized 'S'. It was a small yellow and red emblem painted upon her extremely fetching left breast rather than the original, full size emblem. The red 'hot pants' didn't use much paint as they ended barely a micrometer below the point of having her facing arrest no matter what she had been wearing. The red cape was real, attached to a red band about her throat and adhered in perhaps the same way to her bare shoulders that 'Batgirl' used. It was short enough that it did nothing to hide her charms from the rear. Low red slippers were the only other things she actually wore.

A fourth picture showed the three of them together before a star field, Batgirl on the left, Wonder Woman in the middle and Supergirl on the right. They all appeared extremely happy.

"We're going to need copies of those." DiNozzo said. Without hesitation, Hostler snapped open the binder, removed the four and held them out. He wanted nothing to do with them. It was more than the effect it would have on business should the word of the murder get out and he have pictures of the dead girl.

Far more.

DiNozzo reached to take them, but Hostler did not let go. Tony met his eyes.

"How are the other two?"

"We don't know," DiNozzo admitted. "They're missing."

"Find them," he prayed, letting go. "But when you find the one that killed that poor girl …."

"Yes?"

"You _bury_ him!"

x

DiNozzo would have answered, but his cell phone rang. "Excuse me." he turned around, trying to find an illusion of privacy in the press of bodies all about him. The call was brief. When he turned back, it was to address his fellow Agents. He'd have preferred to move out of hearing of the other two, had that been possible in the pressing crowd. "Ducky found out how she died," he said quietly.

"How?" Ziva asked half a breath before McGee.

"Electrocution. Someone raped her – with a cattle prod."

x

Tony DiNozzo had known Ziva David to be a hard and driven woman who had seen and done much in her time. As an Officer of the Mossad, the Israeli Intelligence Agency, she had done much that would curl the hair of any stay-at-home housewife. Nevertheless, he watched the color drain from her face, leaving it white against the framing mane of black hair.

And if the effect on her was intense, it was doubly so on Goodbody. The woman seemed about to faint, but instead she uttered a single word. "Electro."

"That's right," he confirmed, misunderstanding. She waved him off.

"Not electrocute. 'Electro'!" She turned to Hostler, saying urgently: "From the Costume Call."

"Yes!" Hostler exclaimed.

"What are you two talking about?" Ziva demanded, regaining some of her color in anger.

"Damnedest thing I've ever seen," Hostler exclaimed, paging quickly through another binder, fingers snapping the photos with the force of his search. "He didn't come for a portrait, but I got this shot last evening." Finding the page, he turned the binder around.

The scene was a stage shot from the floor level, the central figure one encased from head to foot in a silver outfit of metallic armor. To DiNozzo it was a cross between a 'Cylon' and one of the robots from 'Star Wars'. The dozens of reflective surfaces on the silver armor caught the effect of hundreds of flashbulbs going off almost at once.

What was really impressive was that the figure was holding his arms high above his head, hands about two and a half feet apart, and in each he held a long silver rod. Between the enlarged tips of each wand an arc of electricity blazed.

"Is this a special effect?" McGee asked, noting the many enhanced shots on display around the booth.

"No. These," Hostler waved at the framed pictures, "are from other Cons. It takes too long to enhance a picture; I just take the orders here and mail the completed shots. _This_ was the real thing. Damnedest effect I've ever seen. I was thinking it's a wonder the guy didn't electrocute himself."

"Do you realize the power needed to generate an arc of this magnatude?" McGee asked his companions.

"I don't know, McEdison. A lot?"

"A big lot." McGee turned to Goodbody. "Do you have this guy's name?"

"Everybody had to register for the Call. Give his or her character's name and a suggested spiel for the announcer."

DiNozzo, extending his hand, received the photo and turned back to Goodbody. "Now we really need to see your lists."


	5. Shocking Discovery

Chapter Five

Shocking Discovery

Back in the Convention Management office, the Agents waited while Goodbody sorted through a stack of index cards. In the meantime, McGee had seated himself at the single vacant desk while Ziva leaned a shapely hip against it, watching Goodbody. DiNozzo stood in front of the desk and watched her more closely. It only took a few moments for Goodbody to find and pass over the appropriate card. "Electro."

DiNozzo had his cell phone open and the speed dial pressed before taking the card. A moment later he was able to report. "Boss, we have a possible lead on a suspect. Yes. No description yet, but put out a BOLO on…" he read the card, "Jay Allen, 555 Garrick Lane, Central Cit…" He was interrupted by an aborted chortle from Goodbody while McGee let his head thunk onto the desktop. "What?" he demanded.

McGee, not even raising his head, reached out and took his partner's arm, pulled the cell phone to his ear. His voice was muffled by the desk. "Boss, scrap that. We'll get back to you." He let go of DiNozzo's arm.

"Probie, what are you-?"

McGee looked up, his face reflecting a mixture of frustration and exasperation. "'Jay Garrick' and 'Barry Allen' were both the real identities of different incarnations of the 'Flash'. Allen operated out of Central City. When they did the live action show in the 80's, 'Jay Allen' became the deceased brother of 'Barry', and they used 'Garrick' as an address."

DiNozzo turned to Goodbody. She shrugged. "There's no rule that fans have to use their real names. Even if they win, the check is made out then and can be to their real name or to 'Cash'."

"What check?" He tried to push down exasperation. These fans, on the whole, may be sexy as hell and he looked forward to filling up his phone book, but....

"There are three stages of winners. Third place gets a collection of prizes including mint condition comics, at least one of which is a guaranteed 70's or earlier First Issue and a check for $250. Second place gets a larger collection, including two First Issues and a check for $500. First place gets a load of stuff plus $1,000."

"I don't suppose 'Electro' won?"

"No." She consulted a printout. What she saw didn't improve her spirits. "Third place went to 'Doctor Strange'. Second place were 'Hawkman' and 'Hawkgirl'. They had very impressive costumes including articulating wings."

"And who got the thousand bucks for First?"

On the desk before the Agents was the group photo recovered from Hostler, and she touched each participant in turn as she read; "Nancy McCarren as 'Supergirl', Cathleen Disla as 'Wonder Woman'," she sighed heavily, "and Leslie Greene as 'Batgirl'."

x

At any other time each of the Agents would have expressed the same thought; 'Follow the money'. But it was Sunday, the Costume Call had been at 5:00 last evening, and even if either McCarren or Disla had cashed or deposited the check there would not be a working trail until tomorrow. No; make that Tuesday, following the Memorial Day holiday. There was no help that way.

"All right. We'll do this the hard way. Probie, can you access anything on these computers, put the pre-book guest list through the sex crimes database, FBI, etc?"

"I can try." He looked at Goodbody. "What database do you use?"

"Microsoft Access."

"Good. I'll need a high speed connection." She indicated the laptop on her desk. Tim was about to go to it when there was a single rap at the door. Before anyone could move the portal swung open and Hotel Manager Tina Ambrosino strode in.

"Good, I was hoping I would find you here," she said to the three Agents.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked.

Ambrosino was about to answer but, seeing the three Convention Organizers, decided instead to reply with "Would you three come with me?"

xx

They made their way in as rapid a pace as possible from the office to the bank of elevators set between the two sets of ballrooms. Awaiting them was a middle aged man wearing the blue work smock of a hotel employee. "Bill, tell these people what you told me."

The man, no taller than Ziva, was vastly uncomfortable, evidently not knowing quite how to say it. "Well, you see sirs, ma'am, I works in the laundry room, you see. We gets all the stuff from housekeeping. Usually we gets it in the morning; they dumps it down the chute as they finishes each couple o' rooms. We keeps a bin at the foot of the chute, takes it to the machines whens it gets full.

"Well sirs, ma'am, at this hour we don'ts get much o' anything, but sometimes a guest he checks out sudden like, and we gots to take advantage whens we can, so always there's a bin under the chute, jes in case.

"Wells, about twenty minutes ago I'm workin there and behinds me there's this God-awful crash, sounds like someone threw down a crate or somethin'. I turns around and the bins moved away from the chute like somethin' heavys in it, and it's off kilter. Well, I goes over to it, all mad because it looks like the carts broke and we don'ts got enough of them as it is.

"Well, I looks into the cart, figuring someone threw out a television set – God-awful crash it was. But it weren't no television."

"Well?" DiNozzo demanded as the man stopped, leaving them in suspense. "What was it?"

"It were 'Wonder Woman'! And she were dead."

xxx

It was barely twenty five minutes from McGee's call to Gibb's cell phone until the Chief Agent and Dr. 'Ducky' Mallard were standing in the hotel laundry room. The latter looked as though Gibbs had insisted again upon giving him a ride and had bent several traffic regulations and warped the Laws of Motion in getting here. DiNozzo and McGee felt sorry for Ducky, he would probably never leave his refurbished vintage Morgan behind again.

The body of Wonder Woman, as well clad as Batgirl had been, lay where it had fallen into the canvas bin, contorted into an unseemly posture. She had landed head first in the center of the cart, the rest of her limbs came to rest where they would. Her back was bent sharply, legs above her head. From the position of her head, they barely needed Mallard's initial observation.

"Her neck appears to be broken, though the cause of death will await deeper examination. The extensive collecting of blood about the impact point would indicate extreme blunt force trauma. But notice…." He indicated her ankles and wrists, which also bore bloody testament to ropes tightly secured and strongly fought.

"Lividity has begun," Ducky continued, "so I would say she has been dead no more than an hour – probably less. I _s__uspect _she may have been dead when she was thrown down that chute."

"How can you tell?"

"When one falls, Jethro, there is an automatic impetus to raise ones hands in the direction of the fall, to try to protect oneself. We would naturally expect her hands and arms to be below her body. But as you can see that is not the case; she hit head first, the rest of the body followed in turn."

"Can you tell us how far she fell?" Gibbs asked.

"I'll be able to. I can't say precisely at the moment, but a minimum estimate would be fifty feet. In a hotel this size it could easily be far more." He looked at Ambrosino who, on experiencing her second murder in one day, was looking considerably unwell. "Is that a straight drop?" He asked, pointing up. The damage to the cart indicated she landed with considerable impact, indicating a long drop indeed.

"From top floor to here."

"Fifty feet would put it inside the Convention, twelve thousand pairs of eyes," Gibbs told Ducky. "Can you be more precise?"

"Not at this time, but I suggest locking off all the chute accesses and examine them in turn."

"Already being done." Ziva and a hotel employee had started up the stairs, locking each janitorial room door in turn.

"What else can you tell me, either about her or Greene?" Gibbs asked, knowing the M.E. had barely had time to start an investigation in his Morgue before the call had come in which had prompted their rapid return to the hotel.

Ducky glances at Ambrosino and leads Gibbs several feet away, pitching his voice lower. "Regarding Miss Greene, there were definite signs of penetration, along with vaginal tearing and bruising. The limited development of internal bruising indicates she died very shortly after she was assaulted, within a matter of minutes.

"On removing the paint, such as we were able to in the limited time we had, we discovered the same burning to Miss Greene's breasts, which details I shall withhold until I have more of them."

"Appreciated, Duck."

Ducky wishes there were nothing more to report. "We found semen, which I sent to Abby's lab for analysis and DNA matching. I left a message for her on her voice mail." He leaves unsaid the grim prospect of having to come to work on a Sunday. The woman had seemed quite stressed the last time he'd seen her,, and she had spoken longingly - and frequently - of enjoying a three day weekend away from NCIS.

"But based on the damage I observed, I'm prepared to say that the intercourse was non-consensual."

"And 'Wonder Woman'?"

Ducky sighed. "I'll let you know."

x

Gibbs turned to DiNozzo, his look summoning the man.

"We've already identified her as Cathleen Disla," DiNozzo approached and reported as quietly. "As you can see by her … attire … she was rooming with Leslie Greene, along with Nancy McCarren as 'Supergirl'. We have two good pictures of McCarren, and McGee used the Convention computer to put out a BOLO for her. They're both pre-registered for the Convention, though neither booked a room. They squatted with Greene."

"You trace them?"

"We have addresses for each of them, they're in the city. But if McCarren's still here, and dressed, she's blending into twelve thousand people and tracing her is going to be a nightmare."

"If I thought it was easy, I wouldn't ask you."

"Thanks, boss."

"What's this about a suspect?"

"False ID, no photo – he was wearing a suit of armor. I can't even say he is a suspect."

"A suit of _armor_?"

"High tech fantasy gear. The point is, we've barely scratched the surface on leads."

"What makes this one a suspect?"

"Name's 'Electro', does things with electricity. Beyond that…." DiNozzo shrugged, leaving it at that. For the time they had spent, the team had very few real clues.

"I was just about to run the Convention's advance reservation list against sex crimes, etc." McGee told them as he approached, leaving Ambrosino in Ziva's care. "But it's a long shot at best until Abby's ready with the DNA scan."

"Stay on it."

"I'd rather download the list and run it from my desk. Or better yet, Abby's lab. A laptop just isn't up to the kind of search I need to run."

"All right, you're with me."

"I'll get onto Abby as soon as I get back."

Gibbs paused, but chose not to answer. DiNozzo would have something to say if they were back in Headquarters. He didn't want to hear it.

Unfortunately, of the twelve thousand potential suspects, most of them would leave for home by tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow evening, following the 'Reservations only' dinner after 'Costume Call #2', they would all be gone.

xx

Ziva volunteered to return to Headquarters as well. Considering how far out of her element she was at a Comic Book Convention, she felt she could do much better assisting McGee. Further, she found the man's company far more appealing than DiNozzo's.

"Fine, I'll stay on top of Goodbody," he'd replied, earning a curious look from Gibbs and even Mallard.

A Forensics team would sweep each of the chute rooms above them. There was no doubt that with two bodies, considerable physical evidence lifted from room 818 and a myriad of fingerprints to be found all over each of the walls for 17 residential floors, there would be more than enough to keep Abby Sciuto busy far into the coming evening.

DiNozzo, who had noted all week that Abby had been growing steadily tenser and spoke with increasing frequency of the pressure she was under, not just from their team but with several others, determined he wasn't going to be the one to bring her this extra work.


	6. Abby and Tim on the Job

Chapter Six

Abby and Tim on the job

Abby Sciuto would have fit into the Convention taking place across town far better than Ziva did. In fact, there were times that Abby was a convention unto herself. Goth girl extraordinaire, possessed of a manic level of enthusiasm and energy levels that would drive Kronos to death from extreme overload, she's NCIS's answer to Grampa Munster.

She drinks a supercharged drink called 'Caf-Pow!' which, taken in small doses, has been known to have white mice bouncing off walls like billiard balls.

She does not drink it in small doses.

She's Goth, frequently dresses with a spike-studded leather collar about her neck to ward off potential psychologically damaged suitors, which is so effective that it has also been known to cause more than one vampire to die from anemia.

When Leroy Gibbs strode into her lab, carrying the ubiquitous bribe of a large red and white container of 'Caf-Pow!', she was already riding a high from her previous container. She wore her long white lab coat over a black t-shirt proclaiming in bold white lettering 'Mega Death, and More Death' and a black leather skirt that was so short she would instantly be subject to arrest if she took one step outside protective confines of the building. She skipped across the room to him. "Gibbs," she called excitedly, landing in front of him, "you'll never _guess_ what I've discovered!"

"The ID of the murderer?" he asked hopefully, giving her the container.

"No. A _cure_ for _Viagra_!" She took a sip. "But I think the Marketing's going to be a bitch."

x

Leroy Gibbs maintained something of a father / daughter relationship with Abby, characterized equally by being proud of her and wanting to take her over his knee for a well earned spanking. What kept her on NCIS' payroll despite an encyclopeadia's worth of quirks was that he considered her the best Forensic Scientist on the planet.

"Abby…" he said in a tone that made it clear that it was the stern father today.

"All right, Batgirl." She led him across the lab – for about two steps before she whirled on him again. "Hey, you think if I solve this by tonight I can take the day off and go to this Con tomorrow?"

"If you solve this by tonight, I'll escort you myself."

"Done." She half turned, but then realized what she had said, because she whirled back again. "I mean 'not done'. It's going to take me a bit to be 'done' on this!" He took the cup out of her hand. "Hey!"

"The case?"

"All right." She turned away, whispering soto vocé: "Party pooper."

"Hey," he held up the cup, "how many of these have you had today?"

"Four." She picked up a pen. "Teen. I don't know. After the first dozen they start to blend together."

"Abby, that's not good for you. I think I'm going to have to cut you off."

She turned to him, real fear in her eyes. "No, Gibbs, don't do that. It helps me think. I can't work without it. Believe me, I'd be all hyper without it and all Goth and black and spidery and you wouldn't want to see that, now would you?" She stared at him, imploringly. "Would you?"

He thought about it, then handed the cup. She received it with an immensely grateful smile. "I don't know which of us is crazier."

"Definitely me," she answered, eschewing the straw, pulling off the lid and taking a big gulp. Then she replaced it and looked at him expectantly. One second. Two.

"_Batgirl_?"

"Oh, yeah, that's right. _You_ came to see _me_!" She rapidly crossed to the freestanding console beyond her desk while he shook his head in wonder. She pulled the keyboard of her computer closer, typed with manic speed. Since she normally spoke at warp speed as well, this was quite in character. "I did an analysis of the rope you sent, looking for extraneous material, DNA samples – other than Greene's, I mean. Guess what I found."

"_What_?"

"Nothing." She looked over her shoulder. "The perp must have been wearing gloves."

To Gibbs, that over-the-knee spanking was looking more and more likely by the second.

x

"But what I did find–" she hit a final key with a flourish and a representative image of a strand of the rope appeared on the screen, surrounded by a complex series of elemental and chemical names. "Ta-Daaaa," she sang.

To Gibbs it looked even more complicated than his Aunt Ethel's recipe for old style home baked beans – that he suspected came out of a can anyway.

"Abby," he said in his mildest voice, always a danger sign, "what am I looking at?"

"Aluminum filings."

"_Aluminum_?"

"Well, either that or a new formula for defoliant." She had the good sense to look into his eyes, and to recognize that her luck was a millisecond from running out. "No, seriously," she began, her entire manner changing in that millisecond from 'Goth Girl from Caffeine Hell' to 'Seasoned Professional Scientist', "I think, from what McGee called and told me, that our chief suspect was wearing gloves that were lined with aluminum. That will give the suit that reflective shine.

"Now, no matter how carefully designed, there is always some form of friction or wear on articulated surfaces, either from the plates rubbing against one another just like tectonic plates or through lesser friction with other surfaces. The breastplate, et cetera, will not have much wear except at the edges, but articulated surfaces like gloves are going to wear much more heavily."

"So, can he be tracked?"

"Theoretically. It depends on the level of wear. I'm not guaranteeing anything, but you might want to check the hall outside the murder room. Don't let anybody use a vacuum."

"Good job, Abby," he was about to give her a more literal pat on the back, but she stopped him, speaking as fast as ever.

"Wait, I'm not finished. This stuff is also conductive, so if he did that trick on stage that McGee described, he would have fried himself. I'd have to see that picture, but I'm certain those wands had to be heavily insulated, just open at the tip, Otherwise there's no way to control the current. Electricity is a bitch to work with. It should go point to point, but I wouldn't want to risk my life on it. If the arc made like in a Frankenstein movie, only in reverse, our guy is toast."

"One can only hope for small favors," he said feelingly.

x

"Yeah. It also clicks with Ducky's analysis. Batgirl was electrocuted, but the damage was all internal, up high, you know?"

"I know." He didn't want to get into it again.

"That's why I want to see that picture. If he's channeling that current through the suit, or any part of it, he's going to need a generator and some heavy duty insulation. Me, I'd go for more than one type, just to be certain."

"What sort of power are we talking about?"

Abby shrugged. She hated having to say these words, but "I don't know. One's positive, the other's negative, no other way to get that effect reliably, but you know this. Now, when you're shocked, like when you touch a bad light switch; that shaking - that's AC, alternating current.

"But here we're talking about DC, one pole; positive or negative, take your pick. That's what kills you. AC, you can pull your hand away. DC, well, the nerves in your body are like little circuits, constantly sparking and breaking, dozens of times a second. You need that break in order to have the single charge move to where it's going. If you don't have that break, you die; because the nerves are constantly on, constantly feeding a signal, and it can't be controlled. It's sort of like nerve gas. You know gas, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Good, I've had it all morning now. Now, DC current," she continued with a pause, getting back on track as though she had never been off, "you have no voluntary muscle control. You freeze because every part of your body is getting the signal to move at the same time, so nothing can. It's like a super grand mal seizure, only a lot worse. Your brain, your nerves, they short out – or 'long out' in this case."

"So, how long would that take to kill you?" he asked during a breath, and then she was back on her warp speed dissertation.

"Depends on the amount of power and duration. A few minutes, a few seconds. But say he uses both rods. Then you've got positive and negative. But the amount of the charge is the issue. One end of the scale, you can drag it out for hours; the other end and you can look like something out of 'Night of the Living Dead' in a minute or two."

"What do you think happened to Greene?"

She evidently hates to contemplate it. "From what Ducky told me, the way those ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, enough for a tie like that to cut so deep into the flesh, I'd say he used both poles so you get the jerking effect you know so well. From the way it seared her…" she shrugged, "…anywhere from a couple of hours at minimal power; provided he gave her a chance to recover between shocks all the way up to, depending on how high he can go, ten or fifteen seconds. There are only two things I'm _definitely_ sure of at this point."

"What are they?"

"She didn't go quietly – and she did _not_ enjoy it."

xxx

In Autopsy, Ducky Mallard stood between two silver tables containing the earthly remains of two beautiful women, women far too young to be in this room. There were few things that saddened him more than such sights as this.

He stepped around the left table, coming to Cathleen Disla. She lay placidly upon the table, eyes closed, unmoving. Even with the obvious injuries to her head, wrists and ankles, she was exquisite. The make-up applied to her body was thoroughly convincing; if he looked quickly his eyes could convince his mind that this was indeed Wonder Woman. He leaned close so he could say to her confidentially: "I'm sorry you had to go through this. This should have been a pleasant weekend for you and your friends." He sighed. "I can only hope that you enjoyed some of it."

He straightened and walked to the lighted panel, where the x-ray of her head and neck had just been developed and posted. It showed Wonder Woman's vertebrae were severed and her skull cracked, all consistent with a head-first fall from a great height. He had already revised his original 'guesstimate' from fifty feet to well over two hundred.

"Don't worry, my dears," he turned and addressed them both sadly. "We're going to find out who did this to you. And I promise you, we are going to see that he is punished."

Returning to Disla, he picked up a long swab. He had already obtained evidence of at least one rape from Greene's body. Now he had to perform the equally unpleasant task of determining, with the certainty that could stand up in a Court of Law, that Disla had been the victim of the same monster. "I'm sorry," he told her, "but distasteful as this is, it has to be done."

xxx

Tim McGee sat at his desk, his eyes locked on his computer's monitor, his mind unusually divided. He was thinking about two things instead of narrowing his focus to the task at hand. In one sense, he was glad to be back at his computer, but at the other hand he was sorry to be away from the Convention.

Still, the pleasure of this weekend had soured immensely. This Memorial Day Weekend was something he had been looking forward to for months, but now….

He couldn't in all good conscience fault anyone. Certainly Leslie Greene and Cathleen Disla hadn't intended to meet their so gruesome ends as they had. But right now his focus was not on either young woman. All his attention was, in fact, on Nancy McCarren, the third member of the 'Superheroine Trio'. He was certain that she would not be found wandering the exhibits and panels of the Convention. More likely, she had not escaped the torment that had afflicted her friends. He had to work quickly and efficiently if he was to prevent her from meeting their end.

So it was a jarring break when he became aware of a soft breath tickling his left ear. He looked up, startled to find Ziva David bent close to him. Very close indeed. "Ziva?"

"Yes, Tim?" she asked, not looking at him. She was, in fact, staring at the names that flashed across his monitor's screen.

"You're tickling my ear." She looked at him and gave him a smile that seemed to say volumes; if only he could possibly read the exotic woman the way Tony DiNozzo claimed he could.

x

If truth be told, Ziva would much rather have Tim read her. "Sorry," she whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear even more. "It is just, I told you before, I am trying to sharpen my skills … computer skills. It is a rare treat to learn from the Master."

He turned to face her. She was just inches away. "That's very flattering, Ziva. Thank you."

"You are welcome, Tim," she replied softly - warmly.

She straightened up, and started to take a step back. Or did she just pretend to?

"Ziva?" She stopped moving away.

"Yes, Tim?" She came closer again.

"I – that is –." She was so close, so delectable he could barely think. "I just wanted to thank you for …" he hesitated. He couldn't say what he was really thinking. "For keeping my secret," he covered instead.

"It is my pleasure, Tim." He blinked, looking up into her eyes, inches now from his, trying to decipher the curious subtext in her tone. But she turned away, and was again unreadable – just like every woman was.

x

She returned to her own desk across the aisle from him, and suddenly it felt like a much further distance than it usually did, than it actually was. "What are you doing now?" she asked.

"I'm comparing the Convention's pre-registration database with the all-too-many sex crimes databases. It's days like this that I wish the world had one big database."

"To list all the men guilty of being sex maniacs?" she asked with a wry smile. "No computer could hold the list." She caught the steel in his gaze. "Present company excepted; of course."

"I should think so." He turned his attention back to the lists flashing across his screen while Ziva, well aware of the problems that arise in conflicting Israeli and American sensitivities and expectations, struggled to think of a way to make things right again.

"The problem is in the number of 'care-of's and P.O. Boxes. The CO's are usually minors, but I can't rule out anything. P.O. Boxes I'm flagging as 'most likelies', but I'm still in the same situation. I think Abby and Ducky are going to pin down DNA and blood work long before I can come up with anything definitive."

"Is that a bad thing?"

He turned to her, trying to keep the irritation he felt out of his tone. "No, it's not a bad thing. It doesn't matter who solves this, just that it is solved. The problem is that Convention Registration lists only cover the pre-registrations, not the better than 60% who come through the door and pay cash. And the one-days are going to be a nightmare. It would be more helpful to have the Hotel's Registration list, but my warrant request is running through the system like molasses."

"I am on it," she said, turning back to her own computer. "I will see what I can do to kick it in the balls." She caught his look out of the corner of her eye and turned back. "That would be 'butt', would it not?"

"Better," he agreed, trying not to smile at her faux pas. "At least less intimidating."

They returned to their respective duties.

x

Ziva was vastly relieved that he'd bought her cover-up. She'd said 'balls' because, close as she had been to him, that was what she'd been thinking. She decided to concentrate more on the case than on the man opposite her before she truly embarrassed herself.

"I am sorry you got dragged away from your Convention, Tim," she said a few seconds later, unable to not talk to him. They were alone in the Bullpen, and such moments were rare. She also far preferred to talk to him than to DiNozzo.

"Don't worry about it. I'm going back, though not to the things I'd been looking forward to. On the whole, it's kind of soured for me."

"I am sorry," she repeated, not entirely sure what she was apologizing for, just feeling the need to do so, to commiserate. "I must say, though, that I am surprised. I did not take you for …" she searched for the word she wanted – for too long.

"For what? I have a life outside of NCIS, you know." He couldn't contain his irritation. Of all people, he'd thought she would be able to understand. He thought she had earlier? Could he have been so wrong?

"I know you do, Tim." She bit her lip. Everything she tried to say was coming out wrong. "It is just …" She couldn't continue, not and be sure of being safe, but she had to get out of this somehow. "Well, you look _better_ there than most of the others did. No wild costuming, no odd shirts – not like DiNozzo," she finished, referring to his Super Bowl XL Steelers t-shirt.

"I'm not a tee-shirt kind of guy. I do have an MIT t-shirt, but not much else."

She was surprised. "What's a 'my titty' shirt?" The look he gave her spoke volumes and she bit her lip, turning away. "Oh."

x

Now, having completely humiliated herself, she was too embarrassed to say anything more. Her thoughts had been too divided between the case and the man. She turned to her computer, locked her attention on her own work. A few seconds later, Gibbs strode in, finding his two Agents absorbed in their searches.

"What have you got for me?" he asked. McGee answered first.

"A whole lot of nothing, Boss. We're just in the exclusion phase right now." McGee gave him a brief rundown on what they were doing. "It's slow at this point, just too many names, and I really can't exclude any based on gender or age."

Gibbs opened his mouth to say more, and what seemed to emerge was the ringing of the phone. Ziva tried very hard to repress a grin. Turning back to his desk, he picked up the receiver. "Gibbs."

"It's Ducky, Jethro. I know time is of the essence for you, so I have a preliminary report on our Miss Disla, a.k.a. 'Wonder Woman'."

Gibbs pressed the 'speaker' button on his phone, hanging up so his two Agents could hear as well. "Go ahead."

"Well, the tests for intercourse came back positive as well as in Miss Greene's case, and she did have a broken neck from the fall. But the cause of death was massive coronary failure."  
"Heart attack? Could electrical shock be the cause?"

"Go to the head of the class, Jethro. Particularly in cases of massive and extended direct current electrical shock, the heart loses its rhythm and never regains it. The heart goes into fibrillation and the victim dies."

"So the shocks killed her."

"Apparently. Miss Disla showed the same signs of having been tortured for a considerable period prior to death. Abby's here now receiving the samples I collected. We'll have a conclusive report for you by the end of the day."

Gibbs looked at his watch. It was already well after 3:00. "An hour, Ducky."

"Yes, we can have another preliminary for you in an hour."

Gibbs sighed. His friend's tone carried his usual admonition: 'You can't rush science.'

"I'll be waiting."

x

This was that part of the process that Gibbs hated the most. His Field Agents, Medical Examiner and Forensics Scientist now had a plethora of clues to examine and process – he himself was checking on the backgrounds of Leslie Greene, Cathleen Disla and Nancy McCarren, seeking what they had in common. The leg work, except for DiNozzo's continued efforts at the hotel, was just beginning. For the moment, it was time to focus on the mind work.

Fortunately, his own efforts proved to be quite fruitful. The three women had a vast collection of links extending all the way back to Junior High School. To say that they were fast friends was a vast understatement. From McGee he confirmed the three had reserved admissions to the Convention for over seven months, and were booked to appear at both yesterday's and tomorrow's 'Costume Calls'. He wondered which of them had the idea to do so naked.

He looked across the room. David had already obtained the search warrant through Lee up in Legal for the hotel's registration records. A call to DiNozzo would soon result in that list being electronically delivered to McGee.

His own search had resulted in a trail of the three young women he could follow from Junior High through last week. Unfortunately, nothing could point to the present location of the missing Nancy McCarren, or even to a clue as to whether or not she was alive.

"Ziva? Get Lee back on the phone. I want a warrant to search the hotel – every guest room. How many are there?"

"17 floors," McGee answered instead, "35 to a floor, 594 excluding #818."

"Already called, Gibbs," Ziva had anticipated his decision and answered his original order. "I'm waiting on the fax."

Gibbs wondered if he should get on Ducky or Abby. Better not. Each would call if they found anything definitive. Until then, asking for information would only slow down the search for it.

Once again, there was nothing to do but continue work.

x

Fortunately, some time later, just before Gibbs' patience broke Tony DiNozzo stepped off the elevator. He made a bee-line for his desk, not even pausing as he said "Here you go, Probie," and tossed him a black diskette. McGee caught it, examined it for an instant and then slipped it into his computer's drive.

DiNozzo wasted no time pealing off his white dress shirt, tossing it over the back of his chair before sitting down, now looking more coordinated, if not better, in his dusty Steelers shirt.

"What have I got, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, more annoyed that he _had_ to ask.

"You've got me; wandering around a swanky hotel with a bunch of dweebs, geeks, freaks and meeps, dressed in a white dress shirt and a pair of eight year old jeans."

"It's not that bad, DiNozzo," Ziva put in with a teasing smile. "You're just jealous that Tim wasn't wearing 'my titty' shirt." DiNozzo stared at the woman, astonished. She gave him a sphinx-like smile.

"Don't go there," McGee advised.

DiNozzo turned to him, no less puzzled. "I'm scared to even imagine where 'there' is."

x

"Perhaps a better 'there' is answering my question!" Gibbs reminded him, too far away to whack DiNozzo in the back of the head with his hand, having to settle instead for doing it by voice.

"Well, boss, I spent most of the day on top of Goodbody…."

"Her name's Hinley," Gibbs said, cutting him off. "Cathy Hinley."

"I knew that," DiNozzo, who most emphatically did _not_ know it, said.

"Then _use_ it!"

'Well, so much for faking it.' DiNozzo thought, coming out from behind his desk to stand before Gibbs'. "Anyway, we picked the brains of all her staff, but we're no closer to ID-ing 'Electro', or even ruling out any other suspect. The best picture we have was taken from the floor level up to a stage. He was alone, so we don't even have a reliable scale for height. We can't lock him in as a suspect, can't rule out anyone else. _But_ we did find plenty of those aluminum filings in 818 once Abby told us what to look for. Patterson, Salk and I trailed him to the bank of elevators."

"And?" Gibbs prompted, annoyed that the narrative had ended at that point.

"Where we lost him."

Gibbs kept his hands below the level of his desk in an effort not to throttle the man. "You _lost_ him?" His voice dropped to a quiet tone; always a danger sign. DiNozzo shrugged.

"Sorry, boss. It's an upscale hotel; that means the staff keeps the place spic-and-span. By the time word got to the cleaning staff not to vacuum the hallways … they'd already done it."

Gibbs' hands were longing for the feel of DiNozzo's throat. "I trust you gathered and tagged the bags."

"Already on their way to Abby's lab."

"Well, that's something." He thought of Abby, already well burdened with DNA testing, identifying the source of the particles already discovered as well as researching and identifying dozens of other traces and samples found upon the bodies of Greene and Disla, and decided he should bring her down another large cup of 'Caf-Pow!'

x

McGee got up from his desk and Ziva, seeing the conference moving on to close quarters, followed. "Boss, I think we're going about this the wrong way."

"Explain."

"We're treating this like a regular crime scene, but it's not. It's a collection of twelve thousand completely unrelated individuals who, unless we find a reason to hold somebody, are going to be going their separate ways in barely twenty four hours."

"Barely?"

"The second 'Costume Call' is scheduled for 4:00. It's supposed to be bigger than the other one, larger prizes, and almost fifty are registered already. After that draw, everyone's going to scatter for homes all over the country. The dinner with the Celebrities is 'Reservation Only', an extra fee, so only about four hundred took advantage of it."

"What do you have in mind? A lockdown? Say the word and I'll do it."

McGee believed him. "Nothing so drastic – at least not yet. But the fact is, this is a sub-culture and we are just not blending in. We look like NCIS Agents investigating a murder. We need to blend in better if we're going to get any answers."

"What's your _idea_?" He was running out of patience with the man's preliminaries.

"We need someone to get in on the inside, maybe even undercover. Someone who doesn't look like NCIS. Further, though the 'Costume Call' is scheduled for 4:00, people will be starting to get ready early in the afternoon. They'll be going for $2,500, so people will want to impress everyone as much as they can for as long as they can; drum up the votes."

"And just _who_ do you propose we put on the inside?"

Tim looked at DiNozzo. DiNozzo, wanting no part of the idea, looked at Ziva between them. Tim shifted his own gaze. Ziva looked left, looked right, shook her head and wished she were back in Israel. "No-no-no-no-no."

x

"I can see you as a great Black Canary." Tim said coaxingly.

She turned to him, suddenly intrigued despite herself. "A Black Canary? What is a 'Black Canary'?"

"A woman, of course. An exceptionally beautiful woman, I might add."

"Well, thank you, but…"

McGee, on a roll, would not be put off. "Her costume is this black body suit, more of a bodice actually, black boots, black fishnet stockings and short black leather jacket."

"Yeah, but isn't she a blonde?" DiNozzo asked. They both looked at him and he hesitated, feeling the need to defend herself. "That is, I kind of noticed, and, well, isn't she?"

"Diana Lance had black hair; Black Canary wore a wig."

DiNozzo looked at the woman between them, scanning up and down appraisingly while Gibbs, seated before them, mentally reached 'ten.' for the second time and started yet another slow count.

"I don't know, Probie, I think she'd make a better Black Scorpion."

"All right," Ziva decided to 'bite the bullet'. "What does _she _wear?"

Gibbs reached 'ten' a third time, took a deep breath and started over again.

"She had this black half mask made of leather," he paused, taking another appraising look up Ziva's body. "Black boots, stockings, a really _tight_ black leather push-up bodice body suit that only came up to …" he held his hand about mid-way up Ziva's breasts.

"_No one is dressing Ziva up as a Black__ ANYTHING_!" Gibbs exploded, startling the three of them into back-stepping. "Find another plan."

"Yes, boss," DiNozzo said. Finding great wisdom in making themselves scarce, the three headed for the stairs which would lead to the MTAC level and its exit.

"You know," McGee said to Ziva as they walked. "I really see you more as Zatanna."

"How does she look?" Ziva simply could not resist asking as they ascended the stairs.

"She wears a tuxedo – tails, actually – and top hat. But the tux is just a white shirt, white vest and black tuxedo tails – you know, the short black waist length jacket top, long in the back, along with high heels and black fishnet stockings." They started along the long ramp.

"Stockings? What, no pants?"

"No, just the jacket and these really, _really_ short black pan–" A crumpled ball of paper bounced off the side of his head. Tim, not breaking stride, glanced down to the lower level at Gibbs, seated at his desk clear on the other side of the room. "Thank you, boss."

They started out the door. Before it closed, the last words Gibbs heard from Ziva were "I am starting to sense a pattern with you and fishnet stockings…"


	7. Meltdown

Chapter Seven

Meltdown

Leroy Jethro Gibbs, feeling the need to get out of that Bullpen and talk to someone who generally made _sense_, next visited Autopsy.

There was, however, something especially disturbing about seeing 'Wonder Woman' laid out on an autopsy table. Since the woman wore no clothing at all, seeing her 'clothed' with her torso spread open was a more than usually unsettling sight. He didn't stay long.

"Both our young ladies had been tortured to death." Ducky had told him. The haunted expression in his friend's eyes was more of a testament to his feelings than Gibbs needed. "In Miss Disla's case, it resulted in a massive heart attack which is what actually killed her.

"There were no bruises on Miss Greene, but under Miss Disla's body paint I found extensive bruising, as well as an injury to the back of her head, blunt force trauma consistent with the blood and hair found on the table leg in her room.

"Both young ladies had been assaulted prior to death." He'd avoided the word 'rape', a legal term, but his tone conveyed his feeling well enough. "Abby confirms the samples taken from their bodies are from the same person, but she seems to be having trouble making a positive ID."

xx

That was why Abby Sciuto's Forensics Lab was his next stop – after a brief pause at the dispensing machine in the hallway for a large 'Caf-Pow!' He was uncomfortable lately with the quantities of the drink that she consumed, but if it helped her accomplish her miracles - on her day off - he was willing to suspend his reservations and keep her supplied.

He opened the door to her lab, finding the woman nowhere in sight. Stepping in, he scanned the room. "Abby?" She popped up from behind the bench at his left so quickly he almost dropped the plastic container.

"Gibbs, _h__i_." she exclaimed, reaching across the lab table for the container, plucking it out of his hand. "Thank you!" She took a deep and grateful draw through the straw. "I'd have sex with you if I had a clear surface to do you on!"

x

Despite his best efforts, Gibbs' mouth fell open. Most of the time Abby was outrageous – and sometimes she left most 'shock jocks' in kindergarten. He decided the best thing was to pretend she hadn't said anything. It annoyed her, but it was safer.

"What were you doing?"

"Oh, I dropped my earring," she held up a small silver skull before setting down the cup long enough to attach the silver clip to her left ear. Scooping up the container again, she came out from around the table, only to stop in his side of it, next to a stool. "I'm glad you came, I've been looking for someone to dazzle."

Her appearance alone was enough to do that. The white NCIS lab coat was the only thing 'Regulation' about her. Certainly her twin pigtails, the silver chain wrapped around and around her throat and affixed with a silver padlock, the black tee-shirt that now proclaimed 'I'm schizophrenic and so am I, me too, and me and me and me and me' into infinity and the shockingly short black miniskirt from the hem of which hung a dozen knee length silver chains, would not even be considered 'Regulation' on Mars.

Once he would have said something to her, but when she had started presenting results on an almost daily basis that an entire team of scientists would take a week to produce, he had given up the thought. Now he is her staunchest supporter against those who would rein her in to the conservative image. He'd rather have results than conservatism.

"All right, 'dazzle' me." She took another gulp of rocket fuel and took an impressively deep breath.

x

"Okay, here goes. The body paint is theatrical make-up, I traced the lots to a supply store in New York. They're closed – its Sunday by the way," she reminded him, "but I expect a call-back in the morning. Fingerprints on the bottles and brushes came back matching Greene – I got her prints from NavCom – and two others. The brushes were freshly opened, so there's only three sets – all small fingers so I'm going to say Greene, Disla and McCarren did each other up." Her voice was weakening into a wheeze. "Their prints were lifted from the room, in addition to seventy thousand other people's, so no help there." She ran herself completely out of breath and collapsed back onto the stool, breathing deeply again.

Gibbs had been staring at her, amazed, during her recitation. "You did that all on one breath."

She grinned at him. "Amazing what you can do when you're stoked." She looked back over her shoulder; he followed her gaze to an impressively high stack of extra-large 'Caf-Pow!' cups.

"Are _all_ those from today?" Each cup held 32oz, and there were far too many of them for his taste.

"Come on, Gibbs, do you think I'd let things just pile up from day to day?"

"Abby, that is _not_ healthy."

"Calf patties." She jumped off the stool and went toward her desk. She caught her foot on another stool and almost tripped, but caught herself on the edge of the table and continued as though nothing had happened. "Listen, the brushes were not from New York; _they_ were local. They came from an Art Supply store over on Sunset. The cardboard backings and plastic coverings that had store stickers were covered in Cathleen Disla's fingerprints, so I'd say she's the source of them. Just give me more _time_ and I'll even tell you who used which brush." As Abby got onto a roll, her words came faster and faster as her enthusiasm mounted, so much so that Gibbs had to listen carefully for fear of missing something. It was like listening to an old vinyl record recorded at 33 rpm and played back at 45 and was revving up to 78.

"I examined the paint on their bodies. Both of them were painted the same way; right _and_ left canted. But Ducky was able to get a good examination of their hands – they left their palms uncovered, did you notice?"

"Yes." He answered during her microscopic pause to draw another quick breath.

"They didn't want to mess up everything they touched, which was considerate of them but I'd have been happier with a trail, as I'm sure the others would be." She turned to him in a little about-face jump, her eyes bright in her mountainous enthusiasm. She had done a good job all day today, even on a half hour's cat-nap last night, and wanted him to appreciate her outstanding progress.

"You found out all this in a _day_?"

"_Day_!" she scoffed, glancing at her watch. "Five hours, thank you very much," she was sure she was impressing him now. "Give me more _time_ and I'll crack the DaVinci code!"

"I never read it."

"Neither have I. Anyhow, Ducky found from their hands, you know, the little differences like how you hold a pen all your life, how you open jars and clutch purses and so forth; anyway, they're both right handed. But the canting of the paint -."

"Is left and right handed," he finished, anticipating her point.

"_Exactly_." She held up a pointing finger. He couldn't miss that it was shaking. "Which tells us Nancy McCarren is left handed."

"How does this help us?"

"I don't know!" she enthused, breaking away and going to the other side of the table, taking her 'Caf-Pow!' with her, taking another bracing drink. "But it will; just give me more _time_!" She suddenly sounded very stressed, but covered it as quickly. She stopped walking, but her body kept moving and she caught herself to keep from falling.

"Abby, are you all right?" He was growing concerned.

"I'm fine, Gibbs! Nothing that a little 'Caf-Pow!' won't cure."

He looked at the stack on the table beyond her. "Don't you think you've had enough already?"

"Llama chips! There's no such thing as too much 'Caf-Pow!'. And as for these tests, I'll get them done as quick as I can. I just need a little more _time_."

x

He looked at his watch. It was 4:30. "We don't have a lot of time. By 5:00 tomorrow everybody's going to scatter to the winds unless I put a lockdown on the whole place."

"I always suspected you might be into bondage." The glare he gave her could have shattered stone. "Sorry. Anyway–"

"Twenty four hours, Abby."

She slapped the table, clearly exasperated but giving away none of it in her tone, nor slowing down a whit. "Then give me until 4:00 _a.m._ and I'll have it for you. I'll tell you everything you need to know, including the identity of our shock jock!" He was not keen on her working through the night, but there was little choice. She drew a huge gulp of 'Caf-Pow!', and favored him with a bigger grin. "Anything else, oh Seeker of Truth?"

"What have you got on the DNA?"

"Oh, the DNA. I'm glad you reminded me!" She came out from behind the table, headed for the centrifuge. "This guy's a real spermazoid." She whirled about in that little about-face half jump. "That's 'Megazoid'; except with–"

"I figured that out." He tried not to show the shock she'd hit him with.

"Well, _anyow_, this guy uses it more than any man _deserves_!" She jumped back around again, her white coat flying about her like a cape, finishing her path to the machine, trying to fit as many manic words into one breath as she could. "I got a lot of DNA, and it's both his. I'm matching up all known samples, but the sex crimes list was a bust – he's probably never been busted before – at least not in America and there are less countries willing to share than you realize. But give me more _time_ and I'll break it. I'm running hospital records, blood records, military records, _billions_ of records!" She turned back to him. "You haven't given me a sample for testing yet, have you?"

x

He was about to give an outraged answer, but she was off again. "Give me until _5:00 am_ and I'll tell you his hair, eye, skin color, his blood and everything else!" She took another hefty gulp. "I'll tell you his height, weight, what he had for breakfast!" She rubbed her eyes tiredly.

He looked more closely at her, particularly her red rimmed eyes. He didn't like these any more than he liked her increasingly shaking hands. "Abby, when did you get to sleep last night?"

"Thursday! Anything _else_?" she demanded, surprising him with her sudden switch.

He bit the bullet, not wanting to answer, but under her enthusiastic high he was starting to see real anger forcing its way through. "Did you get the vacuumed samples from the halls?"

"Yes, Gibbs, I did! They're over _there_!" her tone was unusually hard as she pointed behind him and he turned, seeing four fifty gallon drums jammed into a corner. He hadn't imagined it would be so much.

x

"I got every _damned_ _bit_ of that building!" Her voice broke and when he turned back to her, he was surprised to see tears on her cheeks – black tears tracing lines of her mascara.

"And I will go over every _bit_ of it!" She was trembling as she looked up at him, her eyes suddenly, astonishingly, blazing fire. "I'll open those two _hundred_ gallons and examine every bit of dust, every speck of lint, every gram of dirt, every hair and fiber from that entire _building_ to FIND YOUR ALUMINUM DUST!" Her voice rose to a yell which drove him back in astonishment. She trembled even more violently, dark tears streaming down her face, tracing trails of black.

She took a step forward and he could actually watch the rage building in her as she yelled: "I will _find_ your aluminum and I will tell you where it came from; how it was molded, the quantities of all the elements that went into making it and _where_ it was manufactured!"

She came up to within inches of him, took a deep, desperate breath and actually _screamed_ at him, her hands clenched into tight fists.

"I will _find_ which floor he went to! I'll find what room he's in! I'll even find DNA fragments from where he touched it! I'll find what he was wearing underneath that suit, where it came from and everything else about it!" She screamed hysterically. He was too stunned to stop her.

"I'll lift the proper fingerprints off the _thousands_ in that room and tell you who he is; where he came from and _where he is_!" She brushed her shaking hand across her face, smearing a leftward trail of black. "Give me enough _time_ and I'll tell you _everything_!"

Her trembling grew so violent she barely managed to remain on her feet. He reached out for her in an attempt to steady her, but she _shoved_ him away. She staggered backward. The large cup of 'Caf-Pow!' came free in his hand. It was empty.

She fell back against her lab table, clutching at it as she stood shaking violently. "_I'll tell you everything there is to tell_!" She _shrieked_ at him. "I'll sift through two hundred _gallons_ of _dust_ and I'll _get_ you your DAMNED trail! I'll tell you who you're looking for!" She screamed shrilly, tears streaming down her face. "I'll tell you height, weight, coloring! _Everything_!"

She pushed off the table, her red and black eyes blazing, her whole body trembling violently, fists clenched tightly before her as she shrieked. "The one and _only_ thing I _can't_ tell you is WHY that fucking _BASTARD_ shoved those _things_ _into two innocent women and__ ELECTROCUTED__ them_!"

She could say no more, trembling so violently she could barely stand, her breath coming in massive, erratic gasps. He reached out, drew her into his arms and she almost leapt onto him, buried her face into his shirt and wept hysterically. He held her trembling body as she sobbed brokenly into his chest, lying weakly against him.

x

Abby wailed in misery, clinging to Gibbs, weeping so heavily she could barely breathe. Out of control, inconsolable, unable to even _think_ of stopping as the one man she knew to be the hardest in all the world held her to him with gentle touch, giving no thought to her black mascara staining his white shirt, letting her pour out her unending grief as he held her and rubbed her back as it went on forever…

xxx

A half hour later Dr. Donald Mallard stood up from beside the daybed against the left wall of the outer room where he had been kneeling, put Abby's hand upon her stomach and drew the blanket up to her throat. He lifted one eyelid, letting it close a moment later. He looked at her black smeared face, now so placid that he could barely credit his friend's report; then turned to Gibbs. The Chief Agent's white dress shirt was stained with black.

"How is she?" Gibbs asked first, keeping his voice barely above a whisper.

"Quite thoroughly asleep," he replied as softly, taking the stethoscope from about his neck and folding it into his hand, "though I don't like her pulse. The sedative will have her asleep until tomorrow. You say she's been up since Thursday?"

"So she said. She's been living on 'Caf-Pow!'." He glanced through the glass door at the stack of cups on the desk across the room. Mallard followed his gaze and barely kept the flash of anger out of his tone.

"Not anymore." He fixed his friend with a commanding look. "I'm taking her off them as of now – and you take that machine out. She's well on her way to a breakdown."

"I told her they were no good for her."

"Yes, well now _I'm_ telling her." He looked down at her still body under the blanket. "It's uncommon for me to be called upon to help the living, but I have no intention of seeing her on my table." He took off his glasses, rubbing them with a handkerchief. "How much vacation time does she have racked up?" he asked, resuming his glasses.

Gibbs gave a half laugh. "Come on, Ducky, you know better than that. Infinite; as far as I'm concerned."

"Yes, well, she's on vacation as of now."

"As soon as we get this case sol–" Ducky's eyes hardened into diamonds.

"_Right_ now, Jethro."

Gibbs nodded. "Right now," he conceded. "I presume you have some good names?"

"I have a few. Now, if you'll excuse us, I want to finish my examination."

With a last fond look at the young woman, Gibbs turned and left.

x

Left alone, Ducky picked up a chair and brought it close to the daybed, much better for his back. He sat down, lowered the blanket and took hold of Abby's wrist again. A few seconds later he set it back down, recovering her. He still didn't like her pulse. Asleep even before Ducky arrived, having passed out in Gibbs' arms and been carried out to the daybed, it was still too fast.

"Don't worry, Abby girl," he said softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her forehead, "we'll have you as good as new – despite yourself." He smiled sadly. "You know, I never told you this, but you remind me of my Goddaughter. _She_ doesn't listen to her doctor either."

xxx

"That was Gibbs." DiNozzo told his two partners as they ate dinner at a restaurant in the hotel, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of revelers from the Convention, attired in everything from Spiderman t-shirts to Darth Vader's armor. He returned his cell phone to his pocket. "Abby's out of action."

"Why?" McGee asked.

"I'm afraid, Probie, that she's had a meltdown."

"A what?" Ziva asked. She was familiar with the term when it had to do with nuclear reactors, not with people.

"From what Gibbs told me, she had a breakdown in her lab. Ducky's with her now, and she's going on a nice long vacation." For once, there was no glib or mocking tone in his voice. That alone conveyed the seriousness of the incident to them far more than any words could.

"God," McGee breathed, "I hope she'll be all right."

"Too soon to tell," DiNozzo told him seriously. "But it does put everything back on our shoulders." He looked around the room. "Do you think it would do any good to ask this bunch anything?" Thus far, their inquiries had gotten them nothing. No one had so much as seen 'Electro' without his helmet, and the best clue they had was that he was 'tall'.

"I think we should go with McGee's plan." Ziva said.

DiNozzo shook his head. "Gibbs already nixed it."

"That was before we lost Abby. Now he'll have to bring in another Forensics scientist, and what kind of loss of time are we looking at?"

"Too much." He considered again. Twelve thousand suspects and a ticking clock. He fixed McGee with a hard look. "That was your best plan?"

"We need someone who can get in close to our contestants, pick up clues without dragging them down to Interrogation."

DiNozzo shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. "I'm probably going to lose my head over this." He pulled his cell phone back out. "You two try to find a costumer that hasn't been stripped to the bare walls; I'll talk to Gibbs and listen to him shout for a while."

xxx

Gibbs had not actually shouted at his Senior Field Agent, though his biting tones had come across at such volume that the reception on the small cellular phone had started to break up, and DiNozzo believed it was from the circuits cringing in fear. At the end, however, it had to be grudgingly admitted that there were very few chances of solving this case in the time remaining if they didn't resort to unusual methods. And somehow, the Convention atmosphere seemed to suggest that only outré tactics would solve this case.

x

Fortunately for Gibbs, if unfortunate for his Field Agents, the fact that it was Sunday evening worked against this plan; at least until stores, what few of them did not take advantage of the Memorial Day Holiday, could open in the morning. Until then, it was the 'traditional tried and true' investigative work that won the evening.

But when the Convention slowed at 7:00, reducing to only movies being shown late into the night for those die-hard fans who would not leave, Gibbs sent his Agents home. He already had one extremely valuable member of his team incapacitated. He had no intention of having unnecessarily tired Agents missing something vital as 'zero hour' drew inexorably near.

Now, as he started turning off the bullpen lights, all that was left to do tonight was being done by the never-sleeping computers. Abby's computer scanned the vast databases of fingerprints and DNA patterns, McGee's searched for a match between the Sex Crimes lists and the Registration lists of the Hotel and Convention, cross-referencing possible alias as well. It was a daunting task, one he was well content to leave to an infatigable computer.

x

His last stop was Abby's Forensics Lab. He stood over the woman, wishing he could take her back to her home but recognizing that an uninterrupted sleep was the best thing for her. Between her overtaxed body and four days without sleep, she was certain to sleep through the night. In the morning he would give her the bad news.

Now he stood silently over her, wondering if he should've been firmer with her when his concerns about her consumption of 'Caf-Pow!' had started to grow. In retrospect, he told himself he should have seen the mounting signs of addiction. Ironically, with thousands of dangers out there, a plethora of addictive substances that one could fall prey to, she had been brought down by caffeine.

He told himself he _should _have seen it coming, so he could have headed it off.

But 'retrospect' was good for nothing but pain to a conscience.

He bent down, lightly kissing her cool forehead. "I'll miss you, Abby," he whispered. "Get better soon. We all love you."

"I love you too, Gibbs," she whispered as quietly.

He drew back, surprised, but as he looked closely at her placid face, he realized she had never woken up.

He tucked the blanket about her body, then scanned the room, but the only thing that could be used as a blanket was already covering her. Taking off his jacket, he draped it over her, kissed her forehead as softly as before.

Turning away, he left the Lab, switching off the lights, plunging the room into darkness.


	8. The Hunt for a Monster

Chapter Eight

The Hunt for a Monster

"_YES_!" Tim McGee cried exultantly thirty seconds into checking the late night progress of his computer search. It was 0721 and he was alone in the bullpen, having arrived early, unable to rest. He stood up, confirming – making absolutely _certain_ – he was alone, drew a lung bursting breath and thoroughly indulged himself in a very loud and un-McGee-like 'Tarzan yell' of victory, not stopping until he was completely drained.

"I didn't think you had it in you, Tim," Ziva said from behind him, sounding immensely impressed. He spun, astonished to find her standing just on the other side of the low partition. He couldn't back away, trapped as he was between it and his desk, but he suddenly wished the ground would just open up and swallow him. She simply regarded him with a smile.

He fought down the mortification enough to say: "Don't tell anyone, okay?" He tried his best to keep the pleading from his voice.

She looked at his red face and the only thing she could think was 'he's cute when he blushes'. "They'd _never_ believe me," she quipped.

"Never believe what?" Gibbs asked as the elevator released him. McGee turned to him, saw Gibbs and DiNozzo approaching and realized he had avoided absolute and unrecoverable humiliation by scant seconds.

"Boss, I've got him," he covered. "Well, actually the computer got him, but -."

Gibbs was in no mood for the man's second-guessing himself. "Spit it out."

He sat down at his keyboard, directing the data depicted on the monitor up to the plasma screen mounted between his and DiNozzo's desks. On the screen appeared a pair of police 'mug-shot' photos of a man about 35 years of age, with blonde hair and mustache. His face was long and wide, but the blue eyes that stared threateningly from the screen possessed a fierce power. "This is the match from the Convention pre-Registration lists."

As he looked at the heavy, fierce face, he had no doubt that this was the person they wanted, that this man could do such terrible things to Leslie Greene and Cathleen Disla.

x

Karl Hogan had an arrest and conviction record that went back nearly twenty years, culminating in a five year sentence served for the rape and mutilation murder of a diner waitress in Oklahoma in 2000. There was a record of psychological tests appended. The final recommendation was that he not be released into the general public after his sentence was completed, but that he should be remanded to a psychological institute for further examination and treatment.

There was another appended notation that this was not done.

x

"You say this is the Convention Registration match? What about the Hotel?"

"Sorry. If he's there, it's not as 'Karl Hogan'."

"Maybe he took them somewhere else?" DiNozzo theorized.

DiNozzo's mistake was in saying this while still in Gibbs' reach. His vision jarred with his jolted head.

"Disla was dumped down a laundry chute." Gibbs turned his attention back to McGee. "What does it say about this electricity thing?"

"Nothing directly, Boss. But the records of the murder of …" he checked his computer, bringing up a different image on the screen before them, this one of a very attractive blonde woman in her late teens, "…Mary Kane show that she was tortured extensively over a seventy hour period before she was killed. There was no note about electricity, but fire and many sharp implements were mentioned."

"All right." He looked at his watch. It was nearly quarter to eight, and he supposed the Convention would be up and running by now. "Make copies and you three get down there and find him. Put out a BOLO to Metro." McGee hit a control on his keyboard and the printer started disgorging copies of the record. Gibbs, however, was already walking away toward the side door.

"Where are you going, Boss?" DiNozzo asked.

"To break a friend's heart."

xx

When he strode into the Forensics Lab, he wasn't entirely surprised to find the daybed at the left wall empty and Abby Sciuto in the inner lab, clicking away at her computer. She turned, looking over her shoulder at him. "Gibbs, _h__i_!" He was certain he had entered silently, but she seemed to have sensed him with some preternatural ability he supposed was unique to Goth princesses. She spun around on the stool. "How could you let me _sleep_ so _long_ when there's _work_ to be done?" she 'demanded' reproachfully.

He took in the sight of her, from her cleansed face and restored mascara to her black t-shirt that proclaimed 'Vampires aren't the only ones who are bats' to her still red eyes.

"How long have you been up?"

"About an hour. God, I lost over half a _day_!" She turned back to her computer as he came up behind her. She looked back just as he reached her. "But I've got something for you."

She jumped off the stool and went around to another a quarter of the way around the tall table and shelves, picking up a folded jacket. "This is yours, by the way. I found it on me when I woke up. God, that is so _s__weet_! Thank you, Gibbs. It kept me warm all night, just having you near me." From around the other side of the table she picked up and pulled a deep draw from a tall container of 'Caf-Pow!'.

"Abby…."

She came around the table again and hopped backwards up onto the stool, something he would never have thought of doing. "Look, Gibbs, I remember yesterday – at least I think I do – and I _know_ I went a little bit nuts but that's because I was really, really _tired_ and I'd appreciate it if you could keep my little crying jag our little secret but you really need this information!" She exclaimed in her 45rpm rush. She took another pull of 'Caf-Pow!'

"Abby -."

"I've ID'd our killer!" she exclaimed, picking up a piece of paper. "He's Karl Hogan. He did 5 years in Oklahoma for the torture and rape of Mary Kane, a waitress in a diner – got out a year ago after beating a Psych charge that would have had him locked up in a 'Nut Hutch' for the rest of his natural life."

x

Gibbs could have told her that this was old news, most times he wouldn't hesitate, but this time he could not. "Excellent, Abby." As she lifted the container again to take a celebratory drink, he smoothly plucked it out of her hand.

"Hey." He strode over to the sink, pulled the top off and dumped the contents onto the stainless steel. "_HEY_!" She had been surprised by his taking the container, but leapt off the stool when he'd dumped her drink. Before she could reach him, however, he turned to her.

"Abby, you're sick."

She tugged the neckline of her black 'bats' t-shirt forward enough to look down its front, let it go and pressed a hand to her chest. "I've never felt better."

"Abs, you're sick. Worse than that, you're _addicted_."

She stared up at him, shocked and affronted. "Leroy Jethro Gibbs, how _dare_ you call _me_ an _addict_? I am _not_ an addict!"

"Then what do you call it?" She didn't answer. "Come on, Abby, you said yourself you can't _work_ without this. That you _need_ this. What do you call a physical, psychological 'need' for anything, when you can't get along without it?" She still didn't answer, just stared up at him with wide eyes filled with the pain of betrayal. "This has gone from being 'not good for you' to being a real, present danger."

"I can _handle_ this!" she protested.

He didn't want to argue with her, especially when his concern was for her best interest, but he could not let her continue down a path of close-eyed self destruction.

"You weren't 'handling' it yesterday."

"I was _exhausted_ yesterday! I'd been up for four _days_! There was the McGurgen case. Then there's the Johston case, I have to go to Court on Friday; not to mention Harrison on Wednesday! I had a follow-up on Peters, and then you hand me Greene and then Disla – and then two hundred _gallons_ of dust! So I got a little bit tired, that's all. I cried a bit –"

"You were so hysterical you passed out."

"_You'd_ cry after four days in this room! I _love_ Forensics, I really do, but sometimes I get a little bit tired, you know? Four days without a meal will do that to you. So I overdid the 'Caf-Pow!', so _what_? Tim and Tony and Ziva needed me to break this case – and I _did_."

"Yes, you did. And now it's time for me to take you home."

She shook her head. "Gibbs, I really like you, but I was only kidding yesterday about having sex with you."

"_Abby_!"

x

Suddenly he realized that this whole thing was a defensive move on her part. "All right, listen." He said, burying his feelings in a reasonable tone. "You did an outstanding job, you've _solved_ the case, you've earned your kudos – but you've also earned your rest. Now I'm taking you home, I'm putting you to bed –." Her eyes widened, but he didn't give her a chance to interrupt. "– and you are going to get the _rest_ you need. I'm starting you out with a two week vacation, as of now, and then –."

"Two weeks!" she cried, backing away in horror. "Are you out of your _mind_? I don't have two weeks to _spare_. I've a _million_ things I have to _do_!"

He couldn't believe her. "You're the first one I've ever met that could turn a two week vacation into a _punishment_. I'm giving you Hawaii, Bermuda or anything else you want. This is a _reward_ - for outstanding service."

"_No_!" she cried. "Don't you _understand_? I don't have the _time_! They need me! They all _n__eed_ me! I've half a dozen cases going! I have to testify on Wednesday in the Harrison case! I'm not _ready_ yet to testify on Jonston on Friday! I'm not done with Hogan, not by a long leap, and – and – I tell you, Gibbs, if you force me out of here I'll sneak back in after hours just to finish up! You can't _stop_ me, Gibbs! You _can't_!"

"Abby, you're not thinking rationally. How many of those things have you had this morning?"

"Two." He looked at his watch; it was just a little after eight. "I had to jump start the day. But you're avoiding the issue. You _can't_ stop me from working. And you're not _going_ to!"

He couldn't believe this surreal argument she kept insisting on having. It was like he was punishing her by keeping her away from work, away from the 'Caf-Pow!' "Abby, I can."

"Oh, _yeah_? How? How are you going to keep me from doing the one thing I do better than _anyone else_ _in the world_? How are you going to _stop_ me? Are you going to lock me up? Put me on a plane somewhere – because I tell you I'll take the next flight _back_! So what are you going to _do_ to me, _huh_?"

He sighed regretfully.

"You're fired."

xxx

When DiNozzo, McGee and David arrived at the Hotel Meritz, the 'Greater East Coast Comic Art Convention' was already in high gear; hundreds upon hundreds of people flocking into the building to enjoy the last day of the biggest Comic Event of the Year. It was fortunate they were so well behaved a group, almost all of whom had been here for one or more days already and knew their way around thoroughly; for they completely overwhelmed the Organizers and Volunteers by an order of 200 to 1.

Armed with pictures of their man, the three felt confident that they would soon track down their quarry.

Two hours later, that confidence was a shallow thing indeed. They had checked with Tina Ambrosino and her entire Hotel staff, Cathy (Avgata Goodbody) Hinley and _her_ staff and Volunteers as well as photographer Bob Hostler and every one of the hundreds and hundreds of Dealers occupying the four lower Ballrooms. Finally the team rendezvoused near the elevators to compare notes. It was a depressing conference.

"I cannot believe _no one_ has seen this man," Ziva exclaimed, incredulity warring with frustration.

"At least no one who admits to it," DiNozzo countered. She looked up at him in undisguised exasperation.

"I can tell when someone is lying to me. These aren't trained Hamas Operatives. They're office workers and kids."

"The problem," McGee said as Darth Vader strode by them, "is that." They followed his gaze to the black helmeted figure, his cape billowing behind him. "_That_ could be Hogan and we'd never know it."

"Yes, we would," Ziva retorted, breaking away to follow him. "Excuse me," she called. "Darth Vader!" DiNozzo and McGee exchanged glances, hoping that in her frustration she wasn't going to create a scene by flashing her badge.

The black armored figure turned back to her. Including the helmet, he towered over her by a good thirteen inches. By the time the men had reached them, she had already begun engaging him in awed tones. "That is a very _impressive_ costume."

"Thank you," he said in a voice so deep, so like James Earl Jones; that it surely must have hurt.

"I wonder…" she said, pulling out a small digital camera from her purse as her partners arrived, "may I please get a picture with you?"

"Of course."

She handed her camera to McGee, who took a step back as 'Vader' put an arm about her shoulder, the flowing black cape draping behind her and down her right side. McGee took the picture. Ziva looked up – way up – to Vader.

"Thank you so much. I wonder; would you mind if I got one of you _without_ the helmet?"

"Not at all." He reached up. The helmet was in two parts, face mask and headpiece, and he removed both parts, handing them to DiNozzo. What was revealed was the face of a young black man who could barely be more than twenty years old. Though admittedly tall, some of his height was assisted by extra-thick boots. He again put his arm about Ziva's shoulder, and both of them smiled for the shot.

"Thank you so much," Ziva gushed.

"You're very welcome," he told her in a voice that was now considerably less intimidating, quite pleased to have had the attention, however briefly, of such a beautiful woman. He accepted the parts of his helmet and restored them, gave them a wave and carried on along his original path.

"Well, that was a waste," DiNozzo said.

"Come on, Tony," McGee chided. "Did you think we'd find Hogan as 'Electro Vader'?"

"Are you planning on doing this with everyone, just on the hope that we get lucky?"

"Can not hurt. We just play the tourist. If we are nice, they will be nice. Come on. One down," Ziva said, spotting a green hooded, metal masked Dr. Doom crossing from one ballroom to the other, "four hundred to go."


	9. A Magical Solution

Chapter Nine

A Magical Solution

It was considerably more than four hundred. Even with the group unmasking of a squad of Storm Troopers from the 'Imperial Alliance of New Jersey', even Ziva had to admit they were not making progress. The only one getting anywhere was Ziva, but _not_ in the way she had hoped. It was true that while she had amassed quiet an impressive collection for some future scrapbook; progress on the mission was a flat failure.

"They're starting to blend into one another," McGee confessed as they took a break near the escalators beyond the ballrooms.

"I do not want to start repeating pictures, but sometimes I go up to someone and he looks familiar." She sighed, sitting down tiredly on a seat. "We are drilled."

"You mean 'screwed'," DiNozzo quipped.

She glared at him. If there was one thing she really _hated_, it was Tony's proclivity for correcting her English. At least McGee, when he did it, did so subtly. "Either way, we are getting nowhere."

"Don't let him hear you say that," DiNozzo warned, looking to the escalator which was dispensing their Chief onto the ballroom floor. They didn't need to see the look on his face to know that;

"This does not look good," McGee concluded as they started across the upper lobby to meet him.

x

"How's it going, Boss?" Tony asked as they converged.

"That's what I want to hear from you."

"Slow, unfortunately. We're coming up bust on people seeing this guy. We've gotten everyone we can find to unmask, but so far butkis."

"Butt kiss?" Ziva asked, surprised he would say such a thing. Then she realized what he had intended to say, 'bupkis' from her own language, and was forced to agree.

DiNozzo thought to correct her, wondering how she could get it wrong, but changed his mind. There was something more important he wanted to know. "How's Abby?"

"Resting. I drove her home this morning. She had a bad time for a while, but she's going to be all right."

x

She had indeed had a 'bad time'. She had _not_ reacted well to the shock of being fired.

She had been so thoroughly traumatized she couldn't even react with the hysteria she'd been building to, frozen in alarm. He'd used her shocked silence to make it clear to her that, while it had been a tactic to shock her back into reality, she was flirting with serious consequences if she did not get her life back into order.

She had been immensely; boundlessly grateful when he'd 'rehired' her, but he hoped that she had learned a valuable lesson.

He'd left her at home with her promise to rest and not to attempt to return to work for a fortnight. She could make any plans she wished for where she wanted to spend her vacation and he would see to the expense, but she was under the strictest possible orders to _rest_.

x

"What are your plans, DiNozzo?" Gibbs had already made up his mind what his next step was going to be, but wanted to see what his three Agents on the spot thought. It was for him a combination of testing them and gaining insight that might – might – change his plans.

"Much as I hate to admit it, it looks like McGee's plan is still the best one; get someone on the inside. I'd hate to try and do a lockdown of this place, but–"

"I've already got people posted on every exit, and I've been on to the FBI. If necessary, at 3:00 we'll lock this place tighter than Fort Knox and no one leaves without a search. It's certain that Hogan can't just dump that suit – his fingerprints and so forth are all over it. Even if we needed them it would be just the last nail in his coffin. Meantime, Metro Police have a BOLO out for him." Privately he did not think a 'Be On the Lookout' was going to help. "But my gut tells me he's here."

"Well, we've unmasked every Spiderman, Dr. Fate, Batman, Flash and Dr. Doom in the place, along with three Darth Vaders, a whole platoon of Storm Troopers and the entire Maryland branch of the Justice Society of America."

"I'm waiting on that warrant," McGee reminded him. The others had been easy, a command to have the hotel open and allow inspection of every guest's room is a legal nightmare. He'd called Michelle Lee. Her answer, coming from the normally timid young woman, had utterly shocked him.

"As soon as it comes, we're going to start taking this hotel apart brick by brick." Gibbs declared; then turned to Ziva. "You ready?"

"No," she shook her head. "But I'm about to be." She started for the 'down' escalator.

"Where are you going?" He had most definitely _not_ dismissed her. She looked back to him as she stepped on the moving staircase, favoring him with a smile.

"Shopping."

xx

The Costume Call was scheduled for 4:00, and it was normally so heavy a draw that most Dealers, having been at work for four straight days, started packing their remaining wares at about 2:00. The two hour span was traditionally 'Bargain Time' when Dealers, not wanting to bring home huge loads of unsold merchandise, were besieged by buyers who had been holding off for the last rush in hopes of extra-special discounts.

If the early morning rushes were packed, this was a level of reality that had to be experienced to be believed. McGee had enough foreknowledge to know what to expect – Gibbs and DiNozzo were about to find out.

He hoped that a 'lockdown' was not going to be necessary, though he feared it might be. He hated to imagine how things were going to get when they added to the mix squads of FBI Agents searching every box for a portable generator, an excess of aluminum in whatever form and any other incriminating evidence.

With luck, his plan would still yield fruit. While he didn't believe 'Electro' would be so suicidal as to put in another appearance, it would give Ziva the chance to work the inside, to get the information the men could not.

xx

In due time, Ziva called on her cell phone and rendezvoused with her teammates on the fourth floor. She was carrying a large shopping bag into which was stuffed a white box from 'Empire Formal Wear', and a smaller one from 'You Sexy Thing'.

She firmly ignored the expression on DiNozzo's face.

"Thanks to McGee, I was able to get a costume that was actually possible to rent," she said, setting the bags down beside her. "I did not even bother with costumers," she explained, glancing around the upper lobby, "everything they have is here already."

"Where are you going to change?" Gibbs asked.

"We still have access to Room 818. It's been swept three times already; I'm not likely to disturb anything, especially if I'm careful."

He wasn't happy about this, but there seemed to be few options. "When you're done, mingle. Don't meet with us."

"Right."

McGee was a little disappointed at this order – he would have loved to see Ziva in her costume, especially as it had been his idea. He had told her very truthfully yesterday that he could easily see her as Zatanna. But he could wait. He would see her later – and he still had her camera.

x

She picked up the large bag and headed away to the elevators. Gibbs turned to DiNozzo, unfolding a legal sized printed schedule of events. "If you were 'Electro', where would you be?"

Tony was still staring at Ziva, watching as she waited for the elevator to arrive. "818." Gibbs' smack jarred the man's attention. "Thanks, Boss," he said, returning to duty. He looked over the 14" long sheet, on which the events for the day were broken down by the eight ballrooms; then passed the paper to McGee. He had no idea where their quarry would be.

McGee examined the paper for a few moments, trying to think of what would interest someone with the mindset of a 'Supervillain', and then checked his watch. He held back a smile at the tongue-in-cheek phrasing of the event that caught his eye. "In fifteen minutes the Oyster Room on 3 will have a panel on the 'World's Twenty Greatest Supervillains; Lex Luthor to Lex Luthor'."

"Not much of a range, is it, Probie?" DiNozzo asked with a barely restrained smirk.

He lowered the paper, trying to mask his annoyance. "It is when you consider he was introduced in the 1940's and is just coming into his own on 'Smallville'."

"What else?" Gibbs asked. McGee scanned the sheet again.

"Two movies – I don't have my night goggles; sorry, Boss." His apology headed off a slap to the head. "Pearl Room is having an interview with Stan Lee on the future of Marvel." He wouldn't give any hint that he'd be at that one if he could. "Starfish is holding something on the 'Crisis' series. Mermaid is gearing up for a 'no-minimum bid auction; Neptune and Trident are closing within the hour. They'll peal back the partition and it'll be where the 'Celebrity Dinner' will be held this evening."

Gibbs shrugged. "All right. Let's go see what Luthor's been up to."

xxx

Ziva David let herself into Room 818 with one of the key cards the Investigators carried and looked around carefully, thoroughly aware that it was still a Crime Scene. While it was true that it had been 'swept' three times – once by Metro Police, once by the three Agents yesterday morning and once by an NCIS Forensics Team – it was still an active source for potential evidence. Staking out a corner of the room near the bathroom, limiting herself to as little space as possible, she set down the shopping bag and began to undress.

She had already tried on the clothing while in the shop, so she had settled the fit. Black high heeled slippers she tossed upon the floor before her. The black top hat and tails, white formal shirt, vest, bow tie and gloves were from Macy's. However, as she had studied a 2000 poster of the woman she was to portray, she had been left with a bit of a quandary. The tuxedo came with a pair of pants and Zatanna did not wear pants.

The black fishnet stockings were no problem, except it took a detour to a lingerie store to get them. The black bottom was a slightly different problem.

The more she had looked at the poster, the more certain she was that the high cut pants worn by dancers were going to be her biggest problem.

It was good fortune that she'd found something in that same Intimates store that would suffice. These were black satin which matched the sheen of the tails, would look good with a workout halter top, but they were _much_ shorter and cut higher at the thighs than anything she would ever let anyone see her in outside a gym and so tight she could see each and every slight detail. They were, however, better than the alternative. She certainly would not go about this hotel in black silk _panties_.

She dressed, having considerable trouble with the white bow tie. She wished she had Ducky along to help – but his response to her using a Crime Scene as a changing room was something she did not want to hear.

x

Finally, placing the black top hat upon her head in a rakish angle, she closed the bathroom door to check herself in the full length mirror.

Her mouth almost fell open when she beheld the image she presented. She had known the poster that was her inspiration and guide had been popular, but she had enough of an ego to admit that, had she posed for it; the thing would have sold out within the first week.

Ziva had no pretensions or illusions about her looks, but she had to admit she looked _hot_! No wonder McGee had suggested it. She had sensed this was something of a 'fantasy image' for him and she smiled, looking forward to seeing the expression on his face when he saw the reality.

x

Slipping her cell phone into one pocket of the waist length jacket and her shield into another, she held her holstered gun in her hand for a moment. She could not carry it in her jacket – its weight would ruin the lines. She couldn't use a shoulder holster; the jacket was not designed to close with more than one button at the bottom. As it was, her breasts were more of a hindrance to the jacket's 'lines' than the gun was. But right now, the gun was the issue. She certainly could not carry it naked in her hand.

Normally it would go inside a backup waist holster inside her pants, but she had never worn it in something so tight. She did not want to do it, because it would turn something really _tight_ into–

Finally, after considerable debate, she determined that was just what she was going to have to do. Lifting the tails behind her, she tucked the holstered gun into the high waist, took a deep breath, and prayed.

Carefully turning from side to side, she examined herself. The fishnet stockings accentuated the length of her legs, while the brief jacket, unbuttoned, along with the white vest, accented her breasts. The top hat added a certain rakish elegance to the effect. The gun didn't show, and didn't pull _too_ much – if she was careful. She could move around safely in public, and was _reasonably_ sure she would survive thirty seconds on stage, but she had to be careful in close quarters.

And God save _anyone_ who tried to get a free feel!

x

Checking the room one last time, she closed the door, which automatically locked, and headed for the elevators. With every step, the long 'tails' of the formal jacket brushed teasingly along the backs of her almost bare legs. Reaching the elevators, she paused to check her appearance again in the huge mirror on the rear wall, deciding not to worry about the pulling weight of the gun and adopting a saucy pose. '_Hot_?', she thought, again imagining Tim's eyes when he saw her. 'This will bring him to a _boil_.'

Even as she pressed the button for the elevator, another costumed figure turned the corner, entering the bank. He was tall, dressed in green spandex that clung to his not unpleasant body. His shoulder length hair and long beard were green as well, which rather broke Ziva's initial attraction. His thin face and hands were green, and his suit was covered with golden lightning bolts, even to the extent of having one painted in gold on each green cheek. Ziva didn't consider the combination appealing, but he looked her over and she politely returned his initial smile as a fellow costumed superhero.

The bell above their heads rang, the door slid open and they boarded. Ziva remained closer to the entrance; she didn't like riding too far from the controls. The door closed and they started to descend.

"'Zatanna', yes?" he asked from behind her.

"Yes. And you? Flash?" she guessed, knowing of only that one character who wore lightning bolts.

"No, they call me 'Electro'."

x

Ziva tried to whirl even as her hand flashed back for the gun tucked behind her tails before she felt pressure at the small of her back. Her body froze, every muscle stiff as a surge of electricity seared through her body.

DC current. She stood frozen, her muscles seized as the blast of force overwhelmed her. She was helpless, eyes wide and staring, unable to even take a breath as the force continued to sear her. She couldn't even scream!

It went on and on, trapped her in horrible paralysis. She never knew how long it took, but then the car stopped its descent, the door slid open. She pitched forward, unable stop herself as she fell out of the car, slammed down upon the floor.


	10. The Monster's Lair

Chapter Ten

The Monster's Lair

Gibbs, DiNozzo and McGee had decided to separate, to maximize their chances of success of the search in the limited amount of time left to them. When the announcement had gone out, a half hour prior to the start of the Costume Call, for the participants to assemble, they knew they would not hear see Ziva until she appeared on stage. Avoiding breaking cover, she would not call unless she found something. Until then, each was on his own, searching each of the twelve ballrooms, scanning twelve thousand fans for one sadistic murderer.

For Ziva David, slowly regaining consciousness, fighting to open her eyes and focus against the soft blur before her, the search was over.

x

She tried to move, and the first resistance to that move brought her instantly awake, instantly aware. She lay on a bed in a hotel room, her arms raised high over her head, her head lifted slightly upon a pillow she knew was not placed for her comfort. As she looked up, she wasn't surprised to find her wrists bound tightly by white ropes that trailed down over the edge of the mattress. She tried to move her legs, found them spread as widely and secured as tightly.

But worst of all was what she beheld when she looked down the length of her body.

Her black tuxedo jacket, white vest and bow tie were gone, and her white formal shirt was open, hanging down either side of her. To her horror she found, secured with black tape to her bare breasts, equally naked wires taped over her pink nipples.

She traced the wires to a large machine set on a stand to her left at the foot of her bed. There were more wires, and her distress mounted as she traced these between her widely spread legs. She no longer felt the pressure of material now but soft breeze tickling her closely shaved flesh and knew her stockings and once tight pants had been cut away. Tape was attached to her upper thighs, securing something long and hard deeply within her.

She tried to cry out, but her mouth was tightly covered with, she presumed, that same black tape.

Other wires extended from the machine on the stand to her left. She turned, not surprised to find the body of a blonde woman similarly secured upon the bed beside her. Though painted as Supergirl, Ziva knew she'd found the missing Nancy McCarren.

She was not moving. As Ziva stared, she couldn't even see the other woman _breathing_.

x

"Well, finally awake." A voice from her right startled her, and she turned, tracking the tall, green costumed man as he crossed the foot of her bed. He didn't take his eyes off her widely spread crotch until he stopped at the waist high machine set on the stand before him.

As his eyes stroked her body with an intimacy that made her want to tear them out of his head, she understood how, even made up, they had failed to find him. Even discounting the green face, long green hair and beard, he looked almost nothing like the photo they had of Karl Hogan.

That photo had been taken at his arrest six years ago. The man that stood before her now had to be at least fifty pounds thinner. He had to have indulged in at least one face lift or other cosmetic surgery. His eyes seemed closer together than she remembered and his nose and lips were different. With picture in hand, she would not have matched him to it.

x

"Well, Miss Ziva David of NCIS, welcome back to the land of the living – at least for now." He held up her badge and ID; then tossed them to the floor. "I must admit, you're a surprise. You're _more _than I expected," He told her appreciatively, looking pointedly between her legs. "A lot more."

Ziva's growl of pure fury was muffled by the tape. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of struggling to close her legs, knowing she could not, nor could she dislodge the rod buried deeply within her.

"I wondered if I had overstayed my welcome, but the game was just too delicious to pass up." He laughed. "I've watched you for two _days_ now, always so many steps behind, always going around and around in my circle."

He leaned on the machine, getting closer to her. "Your McGeek actually showed me a picture of _myself_. From _Oklahoma_! It was all I could do not to bust out laughing in his stupid face." He caught her glance at 'Supergirl'. "Oh, don't worry, she's not dead. Yet. In fact, let's bring her back, shall we?"

He snapped a switch on the device and Nancy McCarren leapt wildly upon the bed, her shriek muffled by the tight tape holding her mouth closed. Her body jerked wildly until the current was turned off.

She collapsed upon the mattress, sobbing piteously. It was clear she had been subjected to such torments almost constantly over the past two days.

x

Nancy looked up at the man, her eyes pleading for mercy she knew she would never get as she cried into the gagging tape. He hit the switch again and she writhed wildly, her scream barely muffled.

"Oh, but let's not leave you out of the fun," the green monster said with a sadistic smile. At the click of a switch, a bolt of lightning seared Ziva's breasts and between her legs. Agony tore through her, AC current making her jump about wildly on the mattress. It was over in moments, but the pain vied horribly with the ropes that had tightened about her wrists and ankles. Beside her, Nancy continued to scream as her tortured body writhed under the electrical assault.

A moment later lightning, worse than before, attacked Ziva. Writhing helplessly on the bed, she flung back her head and shrieked!

xxx

The Costume Call had begun and the tremendous ballroom was packed with over two thousand people. Three times the Call had had to be paused until fans filling the aisles and spaces along the side walls moved away in accord with fire regulations.

Wide aisles quartered the room, inward from the door at right center and running the middle of the room from stage steps to far rear. There was also a six foot space along the walls – or that was the plan.

The contestants took the stage in turn through a curtain set up on the right side of the stage in response to the MC's introductions. They had assembled in line in a small side room, lined up to await their turn to display their costumes. Occasionally they indulged in a short piece of drama or music that was generally pleasurable, though on a very few occasions painful to watch for flubbed lines, inadequate dramatic training or voices best restricted to showers.

Gibbs, having posted himself on the front left corner of the room, was in position to receive and respond to Ziva's signal, or to see her when her turn came to take the stage. He had to admit that some of the acts where worth the prizes described. But his attention was divided among the crowd, the contestants, the FBI and NCIS Agents surrounding the building awaiting his signal, and a secret pleasurable anticipation at seeing Ziva in this infamous disguise McGee had concocted.

McGee was halfway down the length of the room on the right near the entry door, close to the aisle that cut across the middle of the room. DiNozzo was opposite him and half a length further to the rear, back pressed to the wall. The three Agents were therefore at the best positions to cover the room with the best response time should one of them signal the discovery of their quarry.

They had line of sight contact with each other, and Gibbs was about to send a signal when the MC's amplified voice announced: "And now, from the mysterious mystical realm, we have Miss Zeeva Daveed as … ZATANNA!"

x

The first anticipatory applause of the collected mob were greeted with – nothing. No movement of the curtain, no entry of the distinctive figure onto the stage. A moment later the MC tried again, this time with greater enthusiasm and volume. "Zeeva Daveed – ZATANNA!"

The applause started again, transmuted instantly to shrieks as a man leapt onto the stage from the corner, gun in hand, charged across the stage and burst through the curtain violently enough to almost rip it from its mounts.

An instant later another man charged up the middle aisle, gun also bare in his hand. He leapt up the steps and through the curtain, followed an instant later by a third man who knocked people away from the wall. He leapt onto the stage and tore through the curtain, this time the right side did not survive the abuse. It hung by the left and middle tacks, half open and displaying the pandemonium within.

When the first man had burst into the small entryway, gun in hand, there had been shrieks of panic. But when two more armed men burst in, the situation got so out of control. The three intruders could barely hear each other.

Shouts of 'NCIS' and "Federal Agents' and 'No one move' and 'Where is she?' filled the ballroom. In the madness no one could answer. Three people had fainted dead away, and the rest were not so fortunate.

xxx

Ziva tried her best to keep from crying at the ceaseless brutal assaults. Nancy McCarren had no such restraint, having endured this torture for two full days. The shocks were growing worse – or did they just _feel_ like they were?

Sometimes the women were shocked simultaneously, sometimes separately, sometimes once, sometimes multiple times. The sadistic madman Hogan controlled each of the three wires in each of them independently, so she never knew when or _where_ she would be attacked. Sometimes the torture was short but there were times when it seemed the charges would never end.

Far worse than the shocks to Ziva's breasts were the ones inflicted so deeply within her. She recalled the descriptions from Ducky's reports, and imagination was an even worse torment than the painful shocks.

And always there was Hogan, standing between them at the base of their beds, his eyes petting their writhing bodies. He spoke to them of his pleasure in seeing them convulse helplessly at his command.

Ziva felt tears she couldn't control trail down both sides of her face. The tightened ropes at her wrists and ankles, which held her splayed obscenely before him, bit viciously into her. She remembered the blood on the wrists and ankles of Leslie Greene and Cathleen Disla and had no illusions about her fate.

She had once believed that, when she died, it would be at the hands of a Hamas terrorist. Now she wished it could be so.

She heard another of those interminable clicks an instant before another lightning bolt slammed into her, seared her helpless body. She couldn't hold back her shriek!


	11. The god of Death

Chapter Eleven

The god of Death

Leroy Gibbs had no time to hand-hold a bunch of costumed, terrified civilians, even though he had been the one to terrify them. There would be apologies _later_. Right now, he had a missing Agent.

Holstering his Sig, he closed with DiNozzo and McGee and flipped open his cell phone, pressed a speed dial code. "Tobias!" He addressed his FBI counterpart Chief Agent. "Ziva's gone! Move in." He cut the signal without even waiting for an acknowledgement and punched in a second code; this one to Headquarters. One ring. Two rings. Damn – _three_ rings. FOUR.

"NCIS," a familiar voice replied. He stared at the phone in disbelief.

"_Abby_?"

"Gibbs, before you blow up listen, I _know_ I said I'd stay–"

"_Shut up_!" He turned and brushed past the partially open curtain, stepped out onto the stage and jumped down to the floor level, followed by DiNozzo and McGee. In his mind's eye he could see Abby staring in shocked disbelief at the phone upon her desk.

Men and women dressed in dark blue FBI Field jackets converged with others in NCIS jackets be ore the stage.

They ignored the two thousand silent witnesses thronging the ballroom. The fans had assembled for entertainment, now they were witnesses to a real life drama.

Gibbs still had Abby on the speaker phone. "Ziva's gone. Are you in your lab?" He had to be sure.

"Yes."

"I want a GPS fix on her cell phone. NOW!" He prayed she still had it on her. The seconds ticked by, and he felt himself getting a year older with every tick. It's only been a year since Kate– "_Abby_!"

"She's less than two hundred feet away from you." He couldn't prevent himself from looking around the packed room.

"Abby, we're in a hotel. I need an elevation!"

"I can't _give_ you an elevation! Not with GPS." If he could have throttled a phone, he would. "_Wait_! Are Tony and Tim with you? And do they have their phones?"

Both nodded. "Yes to both."

"I need them to get as far from you as possible, but in a _triangle_. The wider; the better. I can pyramid the signals."

"DiNozzo, far corner! McGee," he pointed across the room to the middle door, "get out that door and keep running until you hit a wall." Each ran as fast as he could. Gibbs clutched the phone in his hand. "Come on," he urged under his breath. "Come _on_!"

"Four hundred forty, four hundred forty five feet. I _can't_ do better than that," Abby exclaimed.

"Great, Abby - stay locked." He charged for the door, a squad of Agents at his back and DiNozzo running to intercept. People stayed out of their way.

When they hit the outer hall, McGee was already at the elevator bank, holding a car open. And wonders – he had Tina Ambrosino with him, along with three uniformed Hotel Security Officers. McGee pulled her inside the elevator - an instant later it was packed to capacity. The balance of the NCIS and FBI agents impatiently awaited the next cars, but they would first have to watch the destination of this car.

"I -." Ambrosino started to explain that she had come up on response to a disturbance upstairs, but Gibbs cut her off and hit the button for the floor he had calculated.

"Have you got your pass key?"

"Always."

"Good. Stand by." She stared at him, bemused. She supposed he spoke to his Agents exactly in that manner, so she _supposed_ she should almost feel flattered.

"Gibbs, stand by." Abby's voice came out of his speaker phone. "Three … two … one … you're there." A moment later the doors opened. He had calculated correctly. "She's northeast by north of you, two hundred nine feet!" Ambrosino pointed to the right hand set of rooms, and down the left corridor.

The Agents had their guns out. With Gibbs and his team were two NCIS Operatives and three of FBI's. They moved silently with Ambrosino in tow. Two hundred feet and they stopped before a door. They could hear muffled cries from within.

"Layout!" Gibbs demanded quietly of Ambrosino as she pulled out her card.

"The zeros through forties are twin beds. On this side, beds are to the right, bath immediately to your left, television further in, left." There were more muffled cries from within. Ambrosino stuck her card in the slot, the light turned green, she pushed the handle down and Gibbs kicked the door out of her hand, charged inside with DiNozzo and McGee at his left and right.

"FREEZE! NCIS!" His voice packed the room.

x

Hogan had just switched the control off, cutting the power that had the two beautiful women writhing at his command when the door burst open. The men stopped, guns at full extension, the middle, older one who had shouted flanked by one on each side, spread as far apart as possibly. All three covered him, neither interfered with the other.

When the door had flown open he had been startled, and twisted a special control all the way. Now, hands still on the controls, he addressed the three who'd intruded on his fun. He could see there were many others in the hall, they also had guns, but they didn't count because the three were in their way. "Hello."

"Get AWAY from the machine!" the one who had shouted, the one he didn't recognize, demanded. Really, he should have better manners. Perhaps he would teach him over the seared corpses of these two delectable bitches.

"I think not," he replied amiably, making no move to release the controls. He noted that while Supergirl had not stopped screaming for help ever since the three men had arrived; Zatanna, also from NCIS, was silent.

x

"I'm not going to say this again," the middle man said forcefully, "get your hands _away_ from that machine!"

"I think you should know," Hogan replied coolly, knowing he had them all, "that in the instant you staged your oh-so-impressive rescue attempt, I turned the controls up to maximum. Maximum, gentlemen, is six _thousand_ volts." The words were so delicious. Six thousand volts. He'll fry the bitches before they can even shriek. He had his thumbs on two dual switches. "DC now, not AC. I flip these switches, and you will never reach these two bitches before they are _fried_ in their own grease."

He paused, considering. "I wonder how they'll _taste_."

x

Gibbs glanced at the two women tied spread so obscenely open on the beds; Nancy McCarren pleading desperately through taped mouth while Ziva, trusting, lay waiting, trying not to distract him. She was _distracting_, but he had to force that aside.

If they fired, each shot would be a fatal one. He and DiNozzo targeted the man's head, McGee would empty his gun into Hogan's heart; but could he _guarantee_ they could prevent him from throwing the switches? Could he be _certain_ they could stop the machine before its killing charge did its horrible work? Could he be _certain_ that so massive a charge would even be sent, and that the women could survive the seconds that would be needed to stop it?

"What do you want?"

"Very good," Hogan said with an oily smile. "I knew you were a reasonable man." If there had ever been any doubt in Gibbs' mind that they had been hunting a madman, it was gone. "Now, each of you is going to go over and toss your gun out that window." He tilted his head to indicate the window at his far left. They would have to brush past him to reach it. "Then you are all going to leave, and allow me free exit from this hotel. Then you may have your women back."

x

Tim McGee, listening to the sheer lunacy of this plan, had had _enough_. He had not been able to save Kate Todd; he'd been on the street level pinned down by fire when she had been shot on a rooftop. He had not been able to save Paula Cassidy, who had been beaten, kidnapped and nearly killed when she had been attacked in the woods only two hundred sixty five feet from him. He had not been able to help Abby when she had suffered a nervous breakdown he could possibly have saved her from had he been there. Now Ziva was being tortured, humiliated, tied splayed open so obscenely and was seconds away from an agonizing death because he had indulged in a boyhood _fantasy_ and manipulated her into going along with it!

No.

No more!

Not _Again_!

x

"No." Tim held his gun out in one hand and stepped forward.

"McGee," Gibbs tried to call the man off, not knowing what he was planning, but all too aware that they faced a true madman.

"No," McGee repeated.

Suddenly, as the Agents watched, something in McGee made a cold and clammy hand clutch each of their hearts. Timothy McGee was another man, one they did not know – one that they did not _want_ to know.

x

"You made your mistakes with Greene, with Disla." He took another step and everyone in the room felt the icy chill of the tomb as he reached Hogan. They held their breaths, staring in horrified fascination as McGee's voice became the cold doom of the grave.

The universe cringed.

"You made a _worse_ mistake with McCarren." He pressed his gun directly between Hogan's eyes, pulled back the hammer and it clicked into place.

His voice was Death.

"But you made your _last_ mistake – when you – _touched_ – _ZIVA_!"

The universe huddled into itself and froze.

x

Very, very slowly, Hogan's hands came off the controls.

x

That was the signal for everything to happen at once. McGee yanked Hogan past him and Gibbs took him down in a joint lock that had him crying out. DiNozzo cuffed him and three more Agents piled into the room, turning their attention to McCarren who, from the instant her tape gag was removed, didn't cease crying in hysterical relief. McGee hurried to Ziva, coming around the far side of the bed, carefully ungagged her.

"Ziva, I am so _sorry_," he exclaimed as he worked swiftly, freeing her breasts of the wires that had tormented her and buttoning her shirt even faster, then very cautiously withdrawing the obscene monstrosity from her, throwing it so violently behind him that it slammed into the wall hard enough to dent it. He ripped off his jacket and used it to cover her. "I'm so _sorry_!" he repeated. "This is all my fault. I shouldn't have made you _do_ it." He pulled out his pocketknife, opened it and sliced the ropes that held each of her ankles so tightly, so widely separated. She drew her legs together with a relieved groan.

"It's my fault, I am so _sorry_, please forgive me. I never wanted this to happen!" She stared at him, speechless, unable to think of what to say as he carried on a steady stream of apologies as he cut her wrists loose. "I can't imagine what I'd do if anything _happened_ to you."

Freed of the ropes, she sat up, still staring at the man she suddenly barely knew, who had reverted from the 'God of Death' to the Tim McGee she had known, apologetic and solicitous. She didn't know what to think. At his last words to Hogan something had gone through her, something she didn't recognize, something that frightened and thrilled her at the same moment.

He wrapped and tied the arms of his jacket about her waist and helped her off the bed. He got her onto her feet, never once pausing in his self recriminations and pleas for her forgiveness. "I can't imagine what I'd do if anything happened to you."

"Tim, I–" was as far as she got. His lips were on hers!

x

All Ziva understood was that Tim McGee was holding her very close - in his arms. Suddenly the pain in her abused flesh, whether from surprise or otherwise, no longer existed. His lips were pressed to hers and it seemed, as the seconds went by, that a silence spread out from them to fill the room. First one person noticed, then two others, then more, and gradually everything in the room stopped. Every sound stopped. Every movement stopped. Time stopped. The Universe stopped.

x

The Universe no longer made sense to her, and then a moment later it made perfect sense and everything was right. Everything she'd ever known since meeting this man, everything she'd felt, was suddenly right. Her hands came up around Tim's back and she held on, returning his kiss with her own. Her body felt as it had when surges of electricity had been flaring through her, but now a billion times better.

There was no world around them. No universe. There were only themselves; this man and this woman and nothing else. Time was gone. Eternity was gone. Heaven was…

Heaven, she realized, was right here!

x

She had no idea how much time must have passed in the real world she had so blissfully left behind. She sensed it must have been considerable for, when she became only peripherally aware that Leroy Gibbs was standing behind her, she also saw that there were very, very few people with them. She didn't care a bit. She was aware in a very detached part of her mind that he was behind her and that, uncharacteristically, he had nothing to say. She was not at all interested in helping him.

x

"Ziva?" He waited a few moments. "McGee?" He might as well have been telephoning them. The ambulance had arrived, he _really_ thought she should take it, but suspected he'd need a crowbar first.

x

Eventually, though reluctantly, she ended the kiss – though it was the slowest ending she'd ever experienced – and leaned back slightly; only far enough to see Gibbs out of the corner of her eye. She also saw that, with the exception of a massively stunned DiNozzo, they were alone.

She answered him with a smile she suspected was more silly than sexy, and though she addressed Gibbs, there was only one face in her vision. "I'm fine," she breathed. She wasn't sure what had happened, only that - something - had changed.

She moved one knee in an attempt to take a step, that knee buckled and she headed toward the floor.

An instant later she was in McGee's arms and couldn't quite recall just when it was that she had learned how to fly.


	12. Epilogue

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Three A.M. had come and gone long ago, and Tim McGee still couldn't sleep. He sat in his living room, clad only in the boxers he'd gotten into bed in nearly five hours ago and bare feet up on the coffee table, listening to the radio beside him. The news was on, the late night rerun of the eleven o'clock broadcast, one of several reports giving sparse and sporadic details of an almost unbelievable chaos that had assaulted the Hotel Meritz on the last hours of the 'Greater East Coast Comic Art Convention'.

The incident was a sensation, would soon, at least on the Convention circuit, pass into the realm of Legend.

No one had the complete and accurate story, few really knew most of the parts, but there was one thing he was certain of. Even though by morning most of the details would be in place, absolutely no one would have what was, for him, the most significant thing.

Tim McGee leaned back on his writing chair, closed his eyes. For him the most significant thing about this legendary weekend that was soon to become known as 'The Superheroine Murders' or some such terrible appellation, was not anything the world would be privy to. The most dramatic and life changing thing for him would not be the sad and terrible deaths of Leslie Greene and Cathleen Disla; horrible though they were. It would not be the gruesome rapes and torture of Nancy McCarren. It would not be the horrible rampage of a madman who, if God is as just as he believes, will never see the light of day again.

Why Hogan had done it, McGee realized he didn't care. He had more and better things to do with his life than to try to unravel the twisted reasoning, if any, of a sadistic madman.

No. What was for Tim McGee the most significant; the most world-shattering thing about this weekend, was that which had kept him up for hours since, that kept him out of bed and awake listening to a radio that he had not paid attention to since midnight. And it could be reduced to just two simple words.

Ziva David.

x

What had happened? He couldn't find logic, sense or reason for it, but he could not get her off his mind.

In the past few months she had haunted his nights and maddened his days – and though he'd spent far too many months in silence, when he thought he had nearly lost her he had finally acted with his heart.

But then she had been taken to the hospital to be treated for her injuries, and though he had tried to see her, there were reports and depositions and reports about depositions and in the end he thought he would just go _mad_.

By the time he had gotten away it was after nine-thirty, and he had spent enough time in hospitals to know that if she was not asleep naturally, she was asleep with the aid of a pill.

But the morning would come soon enough, he had only to wait here another few hours. He had to make sense - of what? What had happened? Why did seeing her become so important? Why was she the only thing he could think of? Why had he done it? Why had he gone insane? He would see her in the morning, and then he would –

x

There was an almost inaudible 'click' behind him, one as jarringly wrong as it was familiar. And coming from _behind_ him at nearly four o'clock, it jolted him into full alert. It was the sound of his front door _unlocking_!

He turned off the radio, listened very closely. The sounds were still almost inaudible, but they were there. There was someone outside his door - _opening _his door!

Utterly silent, he reached under the edge of his coffee table, his hand closed on his backup gun. Drawing it from the mounted holster, he carefully got up and moved stealthily to the bookcase as he watched the knob turn slowly.

He stood behind the only available cover, at the corner of his living room several feet away, gun gripped in both hands, trained on the door as, with maddening slowness, it started to open. It swung inward with a very soft moan of hinges normally inaudible had it been opened at his customary speed.

Tim's heart pounding in his chest, not with fear but with readiness and anticipation, he aimed for a heart shot. Someone was outside, someone very cautiously listening as attentively as he was. The door continued its slow creaking opening. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out very slowly. The door opened completely and he sighted down the gun at

x

_Zatanna_! No; _Ziva_! No, _Ziva_ as _Zatanna_!

She stood just outside his doorway, dressed as a _dream_, her pose sexier than he'd ever imagined.

"Abracadabra," she said with a seductive smile. He knew his own expression was one of dumb shock. His thumb just barely managed to press the safety on his gun before it fell with a heavy clatter from his nerveless fingers.

"Ziva!"

"Zatanna," she corrected him with a sexy shift of her hips.

"I almost _shot_ you!"

She shook her head. "You are too good an Agent for that. I knew you would not fire."

"What are you _doing_ here? You're supposed to be –."

"I wasn't hurt much – thanks to _you_. I checked myself out. And after what you did – _especially_ after what you did – I had to come see you."

x

He stared at her, utterly incapable of finding any more words to say. From her perkily placed top hat, her long flowing jet black hair, white bow tie, white shirt and vest, short tuxedo jacket with long tails behind, high and tight black short pants that hugged her as intimately as he _longed_ to, through heart-poundingly sexy long legs accented by black fishnet stockings to her high heeled slippers, she was the image of the Enchantress.

In one sense, this was watching a dream come to life. In the other, this was _Ziva_ – for him a dream given life.

She smiled at him, that maddening seductive smile that always set his heart pounding, came in and closed the door.

x

"I wanted to thank you for saving me." She stepped up to him, and he couldn't rip his eyes from her. He tried to answer, but words wouldn't come. "And I wanted to … to see if we could pick up where we left off."

The words got further away.

"And it occurred to me that you never did get to see the full effect of your …" she considered, "plan."

x

His mouth moved, but nothing came out. She smiled, knowing full well the effects of her 'magic' upon him. It was almost unfairly easy. But she knew now that she liked him very much like this, and wouldn't stop for the world. Tim McGee had always worn his heart not so much on his sleeve as in his eyes, and those eyes were telling her things his voice never could.

"I can't ..." she told him almost apologetically. "I want you to know I don't want – but I was hoping ... we could talk ... For a while? Get better … acquainted?"

End.

Next Episode: 'Jurisdiction'. Abby defies Gibbs and all of NCIS to bring a perp to justice.


End file.
